


Inflatable Castles

by Maedlin



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Or is it?), Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Tony Stark, Canonical Character Death, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, False Accusations, Gen, Genie Tony Stark, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kidnapped Tony Stark, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Tony, One Shot Collection, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Terrorism, Time Travel, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony-centric, Vigilante Avengers, Warlord Steve Rogers, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2020-11-15 02:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 59,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maedlin/pseuds/Maedlin
Summary: look. life is bad. everyones sad. we're all gona die. but i alredy bought this inflatable boumcy castle so are u gona take ur shoes off or wat -- jomny sunReincarnation and soulmates. High school and fairy-tales; demons and warlords and nightmares and indomitable strength. On October 17, 2023, Tony gave his life to save the universe.Again.This time, it stuck.(...Right?)A oneshot collection conceived for Whumptober 2019. Each chapter is unrelated... except when they're not. (Seefull indexfor complete list of included AUs)





	1. Shaky Hands (Non-powered Vigilante AU)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a prompt-per-day type activity. Thirty-one chapters is more a goal than a solid commitment and each chapter is liable to "fit" multiple prompts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man’s bound hands shook as he retrieved the shovel Bucky threw at his feet.
> 
> “Dig,” Steve ordered.
> 
> Tony dug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: victim blaming, implied/referenced sexual assault, false accusations, mock executions, mild humiliation, kidnapping, hurt no comfort
> 
> I'm new to this kind of detailed chapter-specific content warnings, so let me know if there's something important missing from the list.

Sunset Bain approached Steve on a brisk Monday morning in early May.

Officially, the Avengers were a small company specializing in White Hat Security--companies paid them generously to break into their corporate headquarters and test their security protocols. Semi-officially, their secondary specialty was bounty hunting. Or, as Clint called it, they were professionals at “Driving around in bad neighborhoods, drinking cold coffee, and talking to stupid people.”

While both of these descriptions were true, those in the know knew that the White Hat jobs were just window dressing enabling their true calling. The Avengers were vigilantes.

They brought justice to the “untouchables” of New York City, the elites that thought themselves above the law because, in practice, they had enough money that they _ were._

At first glance, Sunset Bain might have been one of said elites.

At twenty-eight years old, Sunset was the heiress of Baintronics, a defense contractor with deep pockets.

Her privilege wasn’t enough to protect her from Tony Stark.

Tony Stark, twenty-five year old industry titan. Genius, billionaire, playboy…

_ Rapist. _

Sunset Bain’s visit was ostensibly on behalf of Baintronics, seeking Physical Security penetration testing for their modernized Manhattan labs.

She was fidgety throughout the meeting. Obviously building up to something, especially once Steve called Nat into the conversation and she began to work her subtle interrogation magic on the jumpy client.

Nat coaxed the full story out of her inside fifteen minutes.

“It started at a party,” she said. “He… well, the annual September Foundation Gala? The photo of us kissing on the dance floor made the cover of the Daily Mail the next day, _ Stark’s Latest Sleigh Ride? _And maybe… well, maybe it was my fault, dressing like that. Maybe it… maybe I… was just convenient, you know?

“But. Umm. That night, I mean. I was probably drunk, but so was he? I don’t…” Sunset went quiet, eyes distant.

“I… the next morning…”

She took a deep breath.

“My boyfriend, Ty… Tiberius Stone… he. He’s the only person I told. We broke up. _ Just because you regret it doesn’t make it rape. _And if not even he believed me...

“I tried to forget.” Her hands shook. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture. 

“Then… earlier this week. We. He. I’ve… this info is covered under the NDA for Baintronics, but my dad’s been in talks with SI recently about a merger. And I found out when. When he showed up at my desk. I have my own office, you know? Private space. And he, uh. Groped me? Fondling, kissing, said he wished… said that _ next time… _He’s got leverage, now. Said he’d like to make a few ‘home videos’ with me, and once he gets that…

“I don’t know what to do. We’re going to see each other again in a few days, and he’s… he asked to work with me personally from now on. Can you… please. I need help.”

Nat, Steve, and Sunset spent the rest of the morning ensconced in the room going over her options.

When Sunset finally left, Steve called a team meeting and they spent the afternoon researching and discussing the issue as a group and what they would do.

With such a short time-table, they didn’t have time for anything fancy. Not if they wanted to protect Sunset. There wasn’t time to solicit blackmail.

The records Nat managed to dig up matched Sunset’s story, so far as any of it could be verified.

In the end, it came down to if they believed her or not. He said, she said.

They did.

And so began to plan.

+++

It was nearly midnight when Tony finally called it a night and headed down the elevator.

His driver, Happy, was out sick that evening with a stomach bug. He’d called Tony--or rather, called Pepper, who then passed the message on to Tony--around dinnertime offering to call in a replacement. 

On such short notice and with no idea how late he was going to be stuck dealing with the Hong Kong crisis, Tony decided it was easier to take an Uber. Were he less exhausted the attractive blond driver on the way might have stirred his libido a bit more.

As it was, Tony just wanted to sleep. He was tired. Jittery, coming down from the caffeine high of mainlining too much coffee in too short a period and knowing he had nothing more than a dozen new headaches to deal with when he came back tomorrow.

“Long day?” the driver--Grant?--asked when he all but collapsed into the passenger seat.

“The longest,” Tony confirmed. He closed the door and buckled his seatbelt.

“Music okay?” Grant--even if that wasn’t his name, Tony figured it was close enough--asked.

Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played softly on the stereo system.

“Yeah, just keep the volume low. How you have it now is fine.” Tony gestured dismissively. Grant nodded and shifted into drive.

“Seat lean back?” Tony asked, already fumbling around for a lever.

“Handle’s on the right.” Grant’s tone might be considered curt to the ungenerous, but Tony was just grateful for the man’s cordial succinctness.

“Good man,” Tony said. He leaned back. The car settled into a comfortable silence and he let his eyes grow lidded, mesmerized by Vivaldi’s vibrant strings and the purr of the car’s engine.

The prick at his neck came without warning. Within seconds, Tony was out.

His first thought as he came to was that he _ really _needed to pee.

His second was that his feet were cold. Actually, his whole self was freezing. But especially his toes. And his right arm was asleep, and--

His eyes flew open and he flailed awake.

Or at least, he tried to. His eyes were met with darkness and the sensation of lashes brushing against coarse fabric. An unfamiliar metal grip pinned him in place. A gruff voice demanded he be still. An involuntary noise of something that might be confused terror escaped his lips. 

Or tried to. Only to be muffled by the… _ fuck, was that a ball gag? _

It was, and now that he was aware of it he could feel the tell-tale trail of drool leaking out the corner of his mouth.

The cold was because he’d been stripped down to boxers. Not even _ his _boxers, because apparently his brain’s priorities were skewed enough to notice the textured fabric brushing against his ass was not the soft feel of silk it ought to have been. He was bound hand and foot, harsh against his skin with only a few inches of give between the cuffs themselves.

His cheek was pressed into what he was pretty sure was the thigh of the man that’d spoken to him. Small mercies in the form of the layer of fabric between his face and the man’s skin.

As it was, the picture forming in his mind was terrifying enough. His heart raced, and he must have missed a command or maybe it happened just because the man could, but said grip tightened. An involuntary whimper escaped him.

He remembered how to understand language just in time to hear the tail end of what was probably quite the threatening monologue.

As if the situation wasn’t threat enough.

“--nod if you understand me.”

He lifted his neck just enough to give a bare, awkward nod.

_ Placate your captors as much as possible. _

Half an hour that felt like an eternity of driving later, Tony knew there would be no placating this duo. Because they were _ insane. _ Insane enough that they seemed to consider _ him _the bad guy here. The kind of people he’d typically see protesting outside his company decrying him as the antichrist.

The man who did the bulk of the talking--his driver, almost-certainly-not-Grant, was particularly self-righteous. It might have been obnoxious if it wasn’t so horrifying.

Slowly, the pieces slotted into place until finally, the last detail he needed to extrapolate the rest slipped past not-Grant’s lips. It clicked. Tony _ knew _who was behind this.

_ Sunset._

He remembered that morning all those months ago all too well.

_ “I’ll tell everyone you raped me.” _

_ “...I seem to remember a few too many enthusiastic yes’s and pleas for me to _ not _ stop for that to be true. I’m pretty sure people three doors down could attest to how enthusiastically you consented. But sure, go ahead. _Try me.”

_ “The scandal will ruin you.” _

_ “It won’t. You and I both know that men like me don’t go to prison for this even if it were true. Unless you were relying on that recorder you had trained on us all night? Because hun, you’ll find there’s… oh, about twelve hours worth of missing footage on there. Overwritten with a riveting debate on logging regulations on C-Span. Quite bizarre, really.” _

_ “This isn’t over, Stark.” _

He’d thought her play was the Baintronics merger he’d been approached with a couple weeks ago. And maybe that was still involved in some way.

But this? This must have been her real play.

Tony wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

+++

The car stopped.

Tony was unceremoniously thrown from the car onto the cold, unforgiving ground.

Humiliatingly, the jarring movement and accompanying pain knocked a trickle of urine loose from his overfull bladder.

_ It’s the coffee and whatever-the-fuck you drugged me with not fear you dickwads, _ Tony wanted to snarl. As if something so paltry as his _ dignity _was the important thing here.

Metal-Arm ripped away the blindfold. Tony blinked away the blindness from the car’s--and yup, it was the Uber, which meant the driver was, in fact, Not-Grant. He climbed out of the car and made his way towards the trunk.

Metal-Arm clearly noticed the wet spot and let out a low chuckle.

“Cap, get a load of this. Bastard’s gone and pissed himself.”

Tony hated the flush he felt rising on his neck.

_ (“Is this the legacy of the _great Tony Stark?”)

He couldn’t quite muster a glare, but he refused to cower. He met his captor’s gaze defiantly.

Then Not-Grant returned.

With a shovel.

+++

Time passed. Too much time and mot nearly enough. An endless mental recitation of the digits of pi, long since past memorization and into manual computation.

Metal-arm kept a gun trained on Tony at all times, silent and ever alert from a distance far enough to be out of reach but close enough he wouldn’t miss.

The gag remained in place.

They let him relieve himself with relative dignity, not looking away but not forcing him to soak his single article of clothing entirely.

Strange, how thankful one became for the smallest of silver linings when there was nothing but thunderclouds to be seen for miles.

_ “Miles from civilization. We don’t really _ need _ it, but… just seems right, don’t it?” _Metal-Arm, the man Not-Grant-slash-Cap called Soldier, mused at one point.

His jaw ached.

His muscles trembled with the ache of sustained, repetitive labor. His hands shook, from cold and reduced circulation and a dozen other plausible causes. He fumbled his grip on the shovel several times but managed to avoid actually dropping it.

At one point, a persistent line of sweat stuck on his brow and, instinctively, he moved to swipe it away.

_ “Touch it and I shoot.” _

Physically, Tony was outmatched. His only potential weapon here was his words and they’d robbed him of even that.

He dug. Malingered. Worked as slow as he could without being suspected of such. When the exhortations to move faster never came, he wondered if maybe this was as much a part of the game for them as the implied finish line at the bottom of a shallow grave dug by the body to be interred.

The cold. The thirst. The way he couldn’t ever seem to get enough air. Muscle spasms. Blood breaking through blisters and calluses not suited for the labor at hand.

In the end, his body gave out first.

He fumbled for the shovel.

Missed.

Dove for it.

Failed.

The muffled thump as it hit the ground reverberated loud as a death knell in Tony’s ears.

Tony’s frantic attempt to save it left him over-balanced and he followed it down. Bound limbs were ill-suited for catching oneself from a fall, apparently.

He landed awkwardly on his side, probably bruised his hip. Momentum pushed him flat onto his back, dazed and briefly stunned.

“S’ppose that’ll do,” a distant voice and, before he’d recovered enough to react, the shovel was taken away.

For a split second he thought Cap meant to drive the shovel between his ribs and straight through to his heart.

He was cold and exhausted and afraid and enraged.

_ Helpless fury with no outlet. _

Because he couldn’t speak. 

Because they didn’t even give him a chance to try. Because they took her word over his, or maybe they were just paid enough not to care.

_ And Tony hated. _

Cap threw away the shovel. Hauled Tony to his knees.

Removed the gag.

Tony sagged. 

There were no moves to be made, no brilliant final action-hero gambits to be had.

“Any last words?” Cap asked.

Tony knew there was nothing he could say that would help.

Head bowed, he remained silent.

Metal-Arm cocked his gun.

Fired.

+++

In the aftermath, there is this:

The snick of a knife as it made one, two cuts.

The ringing of his ears, and the promise.

_ “Harass and abuse anyone else, and the next bullet goes through your skull.” _

The roar of an engine come to life.

The crunch and rumble of tires in motion.

It is a long time before the shuddering abates enough for Tony to move.

Shaking hands support a trembling body enough to push himself to his feet.

There’s a twin trail of tracks and crushed undergrowth crushed into the forest floor by a car that, by all rights, should never have survived an off-roading expedition of any sort.

Tony staggers. There’s nothing left to do now but walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Part Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450/chapters/50491184)


	2. Explosion (Iron Man 3 Canon Divergence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 15,000 people worked in Stark Tower. Twelve thousand Stark Industries employees; three thousand contract workers and affiliates. 12,729 of them were in the office when the explosion took place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: 9/11, mild descriptions of gore, domestic terrorism, deaths of children, anxiety/PTSD, mild language (swearing)

Tony was at Happy’s bedside. His watch buzzed and him from his reverie.

He tapped at the device then his earpiece to accept the call.

“Tony. They, they hit the Tower.”

Tony froze. Memories of 9/11 and the Chitauri Invasion paralyzed him. His first thought was—

_ They’re back. _

And then—

_ I’m not ready I can’t do this again. _

And—

_ The Iron Legion. JARVIS on the line. Contact SHIELD. Get the gang back together? Romanoff, Rogers, and Barton are with them. Banner’s… Banner’s overseas and impossible to contact on short notice. Thor? Last time, he just showed up. Will he come again? Can he? Rhodey’s in Pakistan. Going after the Mandarin. _

“They?” Tony choked out the word.

The TV switched from its muted broadcast of Downtown Abby to the shadowed face of the world’s most wanted terrorist.

_ The Mandarin. _

Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.

Tony went into a trance, or perhaps a fugue, at that point. He summoned the suit. Spoke to Pepper. Read the transcription of the Mandarin’s words. Listened to Pepper. Looked at Happy’s wan face.

Said _ I love you. _

Promised _ I’ll see you soon. _

Hoped he wasn’t lying on either account.

Ended the call with Pepper. Left the room. Down the hallways, up the stairs.

_ ROOF ACCESS PROHIBITED. _

Opened the door and set off its alarm. Met the Mark 42 on the roof.

He was halfway to New Mexico when Rhodey called.

“I’m going to need a favor,” Tony said before Rhodey could get a word in edgewise.

“Airspace clearance? You’re pre-approved for emergencies.”

“No. I mean, yes. I know. But not for me. I may have. Well. I want to deploy the Iron Legion.”

“The what now?”

“Armor. Suits. Um. I may have made a few specialized suits for a rainy day. Just in case.”

“...How many are we talking, here? A dozen?”

“Yeah. Plus a couple more. A couple dozen more.”

Stunned silence, then—

“And who are the pilots?”

“They’re, uh, autonomous. JARVIS, technically.”

“You gave your house control of a robot army,” Rhodey said flatly.

“Not yet, keep up. I’m _ going _to give my house a robot army. Legion. The Iron Legion. Think of it like a souped up Falcon program.”

“Yeah, except that has a team of extensively vetted, highly trained pararescue officers piloting them. Your house get a paramedic license too? Take an Oath of Service?”

“He’s got WebMD.” The words were automatic, a quip to mask the internal haze of panic and anxiety. Rhodes didn’t dignify the claim with a response, instead saying—

“You don’t do anything by halves, do you Tones?”

Then—

“I’ll make a few calls.”

“Thank honeybunch. They’re—”

“—already en route. Figured. Alright. Try not to go full SkyNet in the meantime.”

The call ended. Tony redirected his retort to an idle comment towards JARVIS.

“With the suits you are absolutely more the Terminator.”

“Come with me if you want to live, Sir?” JARVIS offered, and _ damn _if he didn’t twist his voice into something half-way between his natural accent and Schwarzenegger’s gravelled tenor.

“Hey, if they’re not ready to All Hail Our AI Overlord, they shouldn’t work for SI.”

Tony chose to interpret the resultant silence as one of fond exasperation.

+++

Chitra Harrison was twenty-six years old when her left leg was amputated mid-thigh. Back then, she’d been a paramedic in the New York National Guard. She was mobilized alongside her fellow Reservists in the immediate aftermath of the Chitauri Invasion. After Iron Man closed the portal. Before they knew it was safe to send in civilian first responders to the heavily damaged streets of Manhattan freshly littered with alien tech and corpses.

(Before it _was _safe to send in civilian first responders.)

Miss Tracy, as she was now known though the legal name change was still pending, didn’t lose her leg doing anything heroic. Not from her perspective. She didn’t lose it shoving an innocent child out of the path of a falling steel beam. Didn’t lose it in the process of navigating unstable rubble to save a trapped civilian in desperate need of medical attention.

No. Harrison lost her leg because she slipped on a patch of oily water beside a clogged storm drain. Her boot caught in a pothole she couldn’t see, and she hit the ground _ hard. _The impact shredded her knees, the right more so than the left. After a cursory examination and hasty sterilization and field wrapping to prevent infection, she climbed back to her feet. She remained in the field for eight long hours until her group was called in for relief.

She didn’t see a doctor for the wound at that point. They’d been swamped with far more severe injuries in need of stabilization for safe transport than her own. The small cadre of military doctors allowed past the quarantine line forwarded as many casualties as they could as quickly as they could to the waiting arms of a veritable legion of firefighters, EMTs, civilian medics, and police officers just outside the perimeter. The doctors flew through patients, stabilizing and prioritizing individual evacs to area hospitals.

All this was to say that, comparatively, Chitra’s injuries were mild. She was qualified to make that judgement call for herself. She even changed her bandages before crashing on her cot in an exhausted slumber.

Four days later, she was on antibiotics for the infection.

Two weeks more, she was admitted into the ICU.

Thirty-six hours later, it was her leg or her life. She chose life.

They told her, _ It’s not your fault. _

They said, _ You did everything right. _

They talked of _extraterrestrial strains_ _resistant to traditional disinfectants and antibacterials._

Of _ bad luck _ and _ blood in the water _ and _ within milliseconds you would have already been infected. _

They didn’t say, but she learned anyway, that Dr. Banner and a team of specialists developed a topical ointment to treat the infection within forty-eight hours of its discovery. That her case had slipped through the cracks with no on-site treatment records save a brief mention in her own report.

Chitra Harrison lost her leg. When people heard her story, they called her a hero. She received flowers donated by florists nationwide to the bedridden of the attack. Lovingly hand-made cards from elementary school children encouraged by school teachers and PTA moms and Girl Scout Troop Leaders across hundreds of cities and small towns. 

“Lost due to search and rescue efforts following the Chitauri Invasion” was far more heroic sounding than “Klutzy behavior resulted in a treatable infection which when left untreated led to loss of limb.”

_ She didn’t deserve their respect. _

Eventually, Chitra—already testing out a revival of the childhood nickname “Tracy” by that point—was discharged. Discharged from the hospital and shortly thereafter, honorably from the armed forces.

Three months later, she was hired by Stark Industries as one of the first batch of employees recruited through the company’s Veteran Hiring Program, later renamed to the more general Disaster Response Hiring Program. She was brought on as a childcare professional for their employee daycare center. Her military and medical background and experiences working with children in her civilian life qualified her for the position. She had no other options nor job prospects.

She took the job.

All this was to say, Tracy was particularly a prime target particularly vulnerable to Killain’s machinations. She was one of many veterans AIM exploited and manipulated as part of the Extremis Program. It was the _ consequences _ of her participation in the program that made her unique.

Even the deadliest of the Extremis-enhanced suicide bombers involved in the Mandarin attacks paled in comparison to the damage Tracy wrought.

Tracy was in the childcare center on the twenty-third floor of Stark Tower when she exploded. Seventeen children, none more than four years old, were killed instantly. So were her five fellow on-site minders. Miss Cameron, her partner in the fours-and-fives classroom. Mister David and Miss Lily in the twos-and-threes. And Miss Rachel and Miss Anna, though their charges in the under-twos nursery were a tad too young to refer to them by name.

The explosion made nuclear shadows of its victims in the pillars and load-bearing walls bared by the blast.

The floors immediately above and below were better off. Twenty-two was the employee gym and locker rooms. It was not especially crowded at that point in the day after the morning rush but before the lunchtime breakaways. Twenty-four was maintenance and emergency back-up power, though the Invasion had proven that Stark Tower’s Arc Reactor was not so easily felled.

All told, an additional eight immediate fatalities were lost the neighboring floors, with several dozen more fatally wounded.

It was bad, but all told it could have been so much worse. The bottom seven floors of the Tower were safely and efficiently evacuated with only a few minor crowd-control related injuries like sprained ankles or bruised elbows to show for it from the initial chaotic frenzy. The next seven likewise fared fairly well and were well on their way to a full evacuation in turn, but for each floor risen there were a few more damaged eardrums, a few additional bloodied noses. 

The next set, floors fifteen through twenty-one, were where things started to get dicier. The closer to the epicenter, the more severe the injuries became. Fires kindled by the blast triggered the sprinklers where they could, but in many spaces the electrical equipment made such fire suppression systems unsafe. The more level-headed employees of these floors cleared pathways to emergency exit routes for themselves and their coworkers. Smoke and other hazards left many others trapped or lost as they attempted to follow the green glows of Emergency Exit signs to stairways and relative safety.

It was an entirely different ballgame for the sixty-some occupied floors between maintenance and Stark’s penthouse.

For them, there was an impenetrable wall of superheated rock and metal and miscellaneous hazards between themselves and even a shot at safety.

The only advantage they had working in their favor was JARVIS. JARVIS, the most powerful AI few knew of. Even fewer had more than an inkling of his capabilities.

The number of those that knew JARVIS well enough to use pronouns beyond habitual anthropomorphization could be counted on one hand.

All this was to say that spearheading the evacuation was a hyper-advanced AI. JARVIS could access and control any and all digital systems within his domain. This being _ Stark _Tower, nearly everything was electronic in some form or another. Better still, his efforts incurred negligible personal risk. After all, JARVIS’s central server banks were safely housed in the Malibu mansion, thousands of miles away.

Eighteen minutes following the explosion, the first handful of the Iron Legion arrived. Iron Man was on their heels.

Shotgun (Mark 40) and Bones (41) arrived first thanks to their hypersonic boosters. Sir’s absence allowed them to accelerate and maintain speeds beyond their typical upper limit. Red Snapper (35), Starboost (39), Southpaw (34), Piston (31), and Midas (21) reached the city next. Less than a minute later, Sir landed on the roof of the Tower in the Mark 42.

Each Legionnaire was assigned a shrinking range of adjacent floor/quadrant evacuation routes at strategic points. Those on the uppermost floors were evacuated to the rooftops of adjacent buildings from which they could safely descend to ground level, while those further down were ferried to one of a dozen cleared landing spaces.

Tony, alongside the Fiddler (29) and Igor (38) when they arrived, headed straight for the eye of the storm.

Stark Tower was likely the most durable skyscraper in the city, but even it wasn’t built to withstand a close-range targeted Extremis strike, which ran far hotter than its “lesser” conventionally-explosive counterparts.

_ (“Jet fuel can’t melt steel beams”? Try “unstable, highly exothermic regenerative serum” on for size.) _

Reinforcing the building’s structural integrity so that the tower could be salvaged or, at the very least, safely demolished, was the trio’s (duo’s?) primary focus. A secondary one—and how it rankled that he had to put rescued injured men and women _ second, _but so many more would be hurt if they didn’t prioritize the tower…

It was a no win situation. Whatever Tony did, he wouldn’t be able to save everyone. People were going to—had already—died.

On the floor, a half-melted, mutilated doll head forced him to acknowledge the reality that, on some level, he’d already known.

They'd gone for the kids.

He swallowed his bile and continued inward. Thirty seconds later, he dropped to his knees and retched.

He’d stumbled upon the nursery. The charred corpses of seven children and their two caretakers greeted him.

_ (your-fault-your-fault-your-fault-the-Mandarin-made-it-personal-and-you-didn’t-give-him-a-clear-target-so-he made his own.) _

His wrath would make Gulmira and his escape from the Ten Rings a tea party by comparison.

The Mandarin and his allies were dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so three pages into writing this one, I was like... "Nah this ain't dark enough." Not for a collection of totally, 100% unrelated Tony-centric angsty oneshots.


	3. Delirium (It Follows AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This thing. It’s going to follow you. Somebody gave it to me, and I passed it to you. Back in the hotel. It can look like someone you know, or it can be a stranger in a crowd. Whatever helps it get close to you. It can look like anyone, but there’s only one of it. Sometimes I think it looks like people you love just to hurt you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: consensual sex under false pretenses, non-consensual drug use, kidnapping, thinly-veiled std metaphors, casual sex

Natalie was a breathtaking mix of lethal grace and endearing naivete. Her long red hair curled in stark contrast to her creme dress, thick black belt, and braided stilettos. She’d pulled her silky ringlets back in a loose updo that, over the course of a few hours in the club, gave her a look of affected dishevelment.

She was _ hot _and she knew it. Presumably one of a thousand wannabe starlets that swarmed Hollywood whose careers never really took off.

She snuck glances at him from her seat at the bar periodically until, finally, Tony called her on it and caught her gaze. He winked; she blushed. He grinned; she flushed deeper.

He sauntered over, took in what she was drinking—a vodka martini, two olives.

_ (“Very dry with olives, a lot of olives. Like, at least three olives…”) _

He pushed the thought away. He shifted into the persona that was all charm and charisma, with just a hint of something… _ more… _if she was interested.

_ Spoiler alert: she was. _

The conversation was short, sweet, and refreshingly direct. Natalie didn’t pretend not to recognize him. Since his escape from Afghanistan and the subsequent media circus when his CFO, Stane’s, involvement in the kidnapping had come out, the few holdouts that didn’t _ already _recognize from a decade as a celebrity CEO-slash-genius-inventor-slash-playboy overwhelmingly knew him on sight.

Their conversation was laced with thinly-veiled innuendo.

_ “I’ve heard a lot about your… assets… Mr. Stark.” _

Then, when they danced—

_ “So, Mr. Stark. Did I pass?” _

_ “Pass?” _

_ “The interview. I’ve heard the screening process can be quite hard.” _

_ “Oh, A+. Flying colors. Love to bring you on-board, maybe a bit of hands-on?” _

_ “I’m all in, Mr. Stark.” _

_ “Tony. And isn’t that my line?” _

They left together.

The sex was fantastic.

In the comedown in the hotel suite he had on permanent reserve for such encounters, he made his way to the mini-bar and offered her a four-dollar unopened bottle of water.

She took a long drink. Tony’s eyes followed the bob of her neck as she swallowed. She caught him looking, not that he’d tried to hide it, and now it was _ her _turn to wink.

“Round two?” She smiled.

“Heart’s willing, sweetheart. Let me focus on _ you _for a bit?”

He didn’t hesitate to drink from the half-empty bottle Natalie had capped and left resting on the table.

  
  


+++

Tony stirred.

His head throbbed. He felt groggy. Out of sorts.

“Tony? You awake?” Natalie’s voice pierced through his daze.

He shifted. Flexed and twisted his wrists. Blinked through the haze in his vision. He was strapped to… a wheelchair? It was dark. They were outside.

Tony was in his boxers and thin white undershirt. Mid-summer, Tony couldn’t fully attribute the chill creeping down his spine to the faint breeze.

“I’m sorry,” she said. A beam of light illuminated a slice of the dilapidated, overgrown and abandoned parking garage he’d been brought to.

Tony turned his head towards the source.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t worry.” The heels and dress were gone, replaced by a pseudo-military or paramilitary combat outfit. The soft thump of her approaching steps thundered in the stillness.

“You’re not going to believe me. I’m going to need you to remember what I’m saying. Okay?” 

Tony followed her movements. Confusion and faint disgust crept into his expression as his head cleared and he struggled to understand the situation.

She paced slowly in front of him and began to talk

“This thing. It’s going to follow you. Somebody gave it to me, and I passed it to you. Back in the hotel. It can look like someone you know, or it can be a stranger in a crowd.” 

Natalie, or whoever she was, kept an ongoing scan of her surroundings and out the sides of the garage as she circled him.

“Whatever helps it get close to you. It can look like anyone, but there’s only one of it.”

_ Fuck she’s crazy. _

Tony struggled harder in his bonds but it was no use. They were hospital-grade padded cuffs, the kind they probably used to transport recalcitrant and dangerous psych patients.

“Sometimes I think it looks like people you love just to hurt you.”

_ Pepper. Happy. _

_No!_

Tony fought harder, grunting with the exertion. She was behind him again, moving faster now. Natalie froze.

“I see it,” she breathed, “I see it.”

She jogged towards him. Grabbed the handles on the back of the wheelchair, and turned him around. Tony let out a surprised mewl, part from lingering pain and dizziness from whatever she’d dosed him with and part from genuine fear.

_ Fucking psychotic. _

And then she was running forward, towards the crumbled-away edge of the structure bordering what looked to be a sharp drop-off.

_Was she about to run him straight off the edge? _

They stopped. Tony breathed in short, semi-panicked gasps, his heart racing, and peered out over the ridge.

A twenty-foot, unstable rocky sloped held together solely by brush and a few weathered supports terminated at the edge of a twin set of railroad tracks.

As he watched, a slim figure walked steadily towards them. He couldn’t make out any details on their face, but they—she—were barefoot. No. She was entirely nude.

She got closer. Small breasts with faint tan-lines, thick brown hair, empty expression…

She walked over rocks and branches and broken glass. She never flinched nor faltered.

She was at the base of the incline now.

“Who is it?” Tony asked.

_ Delirious. I’m delirious. Whatever she gave me, I’m hallucinating. This is just some sort of bad trip. _

Natalie pulled them backwards.

“You’ll get rid of it, okay?” she breathed into his ear. “Just sleep with someone as soon as you can. Just pass it along. If it kills you, it’ll come after me. Do you understand?”

Tony shook his head, whether denial or disbelief he didn’t know.

_ This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. This is just a really bad trip. _

Natalie let go of his chair, backing away several paces. Her flashlight was trained on the approaching woman. She’d summited the hill and was now walking—strolling, really—at that same constant, leisurely-paced cadence.

“The fuck do you want?!” Tony called out, and he wasn’t sure if he was talking to the woman behind or before him, or both.

Because surely they were co-conspirators in… whatever the _ fuck _this was. The metal of the wheelchair clattered and rattled at Tony’s renewed struggles.

Natalie was speaking into his ear again.

“Tony,” she said, “I’m doing this to help you. Just so you would believe.”

She was in front of him again, running towards her… it… and highlighting the figure in profile.

It… she… ignored Natalie entirely. It had eyes only for Tony.

His breath came in short, rapid gasps. Not quite hyperventilating, but well on his way because he didn’t _ understand. _

It had been such a normal, pleasant evening before. A way to move beyond the trauma of the past six months, put himself back out there after Pepper’s… polite but firm… rejection of the advances he’d finally found the courage—or requisite stupidity—to make on the damned best PA he’d ever had.

A no-strings-attached tussel in the sheets with an attractive and enthusiastic twenty-something, in a space he considered safe without the baggage or risks of his or her’s private homes…

_ Jesus fucking wept. _

He tried and failed to fling himself backwards. It was close enough now to make out the muffled almost-hiss of bare feet pressing against worn concrete.

And then they were in motion again, Natalie pushing him forward with surprising strength at a rapid pace.

“Never go into a place without more than one exit,” she ordered. “It’s very slow but it’s not dumb.”

They rumbled over loose rocks and between concrete barriers until they were at the exit. A car without plates idled there. Had it been left running this entire time? How long had they _ been _ here? Surely it was still the same night; it hadn’t been _ that _late when they left the club together…

He realized too late how Natalie planned to get him from the chair (back?) into the car.

Natalie pulled a syringe from a side pocket. Uncapped it.

Tony felt a sharp pinch on his neck.

Then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit shorter than the previous two, but this felt like a good stopping point. Bonus, I consequently finished a lot earlier in the day! This chapter is as close to explicit sex as I'm liable to get; personally, I don't believe it crossed the Mature to Explicit threshold but I'm open to second opinions.


	4. Human Shield (Pre-Avengers Steve & Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's in the wrong place at the wrong time when Steve wakes up from his extended nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: brief mentions of unethical experimentation. Honestly pretty PG.

It was a product of extraordinarily bad timing that Tony was in that particular SHIELD… bunker? Office? Lair?... when events went pear-shaped.

_ “Official consulting hours are between 8 and 5 every other Thursday.” _

He’d told Coulson that in a fit of pique some months ago when the unexpected SHIELD encounters had become just a tad too frequent for his or Pepper’s sanity.

Surprisingly--or maybe not that surprisingly, as Tony could and would be that petty--they’d taken the words to heart.

And sure enough, on the first Thursday of April, Tony found himself in the bowels of one of SHIELD’s who-knew-how-many secret bases mid-afternoon. Coulson had been infuriatingly but unsurprisingly oblique on just  _ what,  _ exactly, he was consulting them on this time.

That said, he’d been left to his own devices without anything to do in this Faraday-cage of a building for far longer than he was willing to put up with at this point.

So he cracked the electronic auto-locks on the room’s door, made a mental note to bitch at Fury on his paltry attempts at physical security measures, and left.

Only to be hit dead-on by two hundred pounds of pure muscle.

+++

_ I know that game. I was there. May, 1941. _

Steve threw the two… soldiers? HYDRA agents?... through the wall of his fake recovery room and fled.

He thought he could hear the sounds of city life down the corridor to his right, and his first instinct was to run that way.

Except…

The room he was in had those noises coming in through its windows, too. Fake. Ridiculously high-quality recordings of reality perhaps but still. Fake.

Steve turned left. He hoped he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.

He sprinted and turned the next corner sharply, pursuers hot on his heels. Too sharply.

He barrelled into a man that had just stepped through an open doorway.

The collision knocked them both to the ground. It was only a short delay, but it was enough. Men in black tactical uniforms were coming in from both directions, now.

He was already in motion when he consciously decided what he was going to do. He hauled the man beneath him up, wrapped an arm around his neck, and backed into a wall. He could see into the open room and had eyes on the enemies--because who else would go to such lengths to deceive and recapture him--on both sides.

How long had it been since--since--

Steve didn’t recognize the uniforms, or the models of the weaponry. The man beneath him was wearing a graphic T-shirt with a stylized… KILL?... printed, the ending two letters landing somewhere between a lightning bolt and an L. It had four white-faced… demon masks… beneath it.

And there was a bright blue circle glowing through from under the fabric.

A shade of blue he’d seen just hours, from his perspective at least, before.

_ Fuck. _

He hadn’t even thought. If HYDRA had found him, they’d also have found the tesseract.

And apparently, they’d succeeded where Red Skull had failed, at least in some way.

Steve’s grip had reflexively tightened as his thoughts grew darker. His hostage’s face was turning purple; his hands scrabbled uselessly at the vise around his neck.

Steve loosened his hold. The man let out several pained, wheezing breaths.

Steve needed  _ out.  _ He needed time to think, to figure out what was going on.

Several things happened in quick succession, then.

A black man wearing an eye-patch stepped out from the group of soldiers that had blocked him in and opened his mouth to speak.

A weapon fired.

The ammo--a dart, as it turned out--pierced the man in Steve’s arms, who slumped.

Steve didn’t remember much of the next several minutes. A blur of dodging and weaving. Running full-speed, an unconscious man with possibly-vital intel regarding the tesseract and the men who’d held him.

He escaped the building into an alleyway. Slipped into the access tunnels beneath the city--and he was becoming increasingly convinced that whenever and wherever he was, he was in a predominantly English-speaking place.

A bit of adjustment meant Steve was able to treat the pseudo-tesseract in the man’s chest as an impromptu flashlight. Remembering Howard’s recent ramblings about eLoran tracking devices and in a fit of paranoia--HYDRA had always seemed to have tech more advanced than should be possible--he swapped out both his own SSR t-shirt and khakis and his… prisoner’s?... outfit for similarly-sized clothing from an unguarded-slash-possibly-abandoned homeless man’s campsite. He sent out a silent prayer of apology to the stranger, hoping that he wasn’t bringing HYDRA down on an unsuspecting victim.

Steve kept running until his mental map and sense of direction told him he was at least four miles southwest of where he’d been held, more or less.

The next ladder out he found, he climbed. He listened a bit for signs of life above-ground nearby and, finding none, pushed his way out of the darkness and into the daylight.

He was in what looked to be a dilapidated, long-abandoned stretch of crumbling buildings, rusted metal, and--water. A river, or maybe a bay. Foul-smelling and wide enough he could only just make out the other shore, but still. Something. Dotted around the worn dockyards were a smattering of boats in various conditions and states of long-term neglect.

Steve scouted on several of them before finding one that seemed both relatively secure, in decent condition, and remote. It even had bunked cabin beds, which after the chaos of the past several hours had never looked more inviting.

He glanced indecisively at the man he’d abducted. Or, potentially, rescued? When switching out the man’s clothing, he’d discovered to his horror that the glowing device seemed to be embedded deeply into the man’s chest. Steve had studied enough anatomy in his vague dreams of art school before the war to recognize that the majority of his sternum was simply… gone. Coupled with the vicious scarring around the device, and Steve had to wonder just how consensual the implantation had been. 

Sure, he hadn’t  _ looked  _ under duress at the HYDRA base, but then, how much of a chance had Steve really had to assess that? He had left whatever room he’d been in on his own power, but for all Steve knew he could have been attempting to escape, or held under duress, or any other number of things.

Zola had amply demonstrated HYDRA’s willingness-- _ eagerness,  _ even--to conduct human trials.

_ It could be a bomb. _

It wasn’t too much of a mental leap. He’d just nearly  _ died  _ trying to save the Eastern seaboard of the United States from tesseract-enhanced explosives. Compared to the experiments he’d witnessed at Azzano or during other HYDRA raids, it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine HYDRA turning people--willing fanatics or unwilling victims--into living bombs.

Now that there was time to properly examine the man, Steve realized he looked… vaguely familiar. Steve couldn’t place it, not quite or at least not yet, but it itched at his brain and, maybe, when he wasn’t so tired or when the man was awake to be asked directly, he would figure it out.

Whatever the unconscious man’s loyalties, whatever the situation or circumstances, Steve just… didn’t have enough information to make a call yet.

Later. He’d deal with this… later. Figure out what the hell was going on, where he was, who this man was, and go from there.

He felt another flash of guilt at the sight of the thick developing bruises on the man’s neck. Sure, maybe the man was HYDRA… but they hadn’t exactly hesitated before shooting him in an attempt to get at Steve, had they? And Steve knew better than most just how fragile the human body could be. He could have accidentally killed him from a crushed trachea. As it was the man’s breathing wheezed faintly with each exhale. Steve doubted the sound matched his normal cadence.

He tried to make the man as comfortable as possible, given the circumstances. He wasn’t stupid about it; he securely bound the man’s wrists and wrapped the long end into a loop around his own. But he was gentler, double-checking he wasn’t cutting off the man’s circulation. Steve covered him in a nylon emergency blanket appropriated from one of the neighboring rejected ships.

He made a final check for any vulnerabilities or pursuers then, finally, allowed exhaustion to catch up to him and settled in to sleep.


	5. Gunpoint (Non-powered Vigilante AU Mk.2*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is it with Tony and being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: alcoholism, implied/referenced physical child abuse

Tony shouldn’t have been there.

He was staying the night at his Uncle Obie’s after the latest blow-out fight with Howard. Since Jarvis’s death, the fights had steadily grown in frequency and intensity. It was as if Jarvis had been the last thread keeping his father from spiralling completely. With that final tether cut, there was nothing—no one—left to reign in his destructive tendencies.

Obie told him to call if he ever felt unsafe.

Tonight was the first time Howard’s behavior managed to surpass that dubious threshold.

Tony called Obie, shivering and squinting in the darkness through a left eye well on its way to swelling shut, from the now-abandoned servant’s cottage Jarvis and Ana had called home.

Eleven o’clock at night. Tony had been afraid Obie wasn’t going to answer or, worse, that he would answer but wouldn’t come after all.

But he _had_ answered. He came for Tony.

Tony somehow managed to sleep through most of the drive to Obie’s home. He stretched out in the backseat and held the cold compress Obie provided to his face.

Tony was awoken a gentle but firm shake of his shoulder. They’d arrived and were parked in Obie’s garage. It was nearly two in the morning by now.

“C’mon, kiddo. Let’s get you settled in the guest room.”

+++

Obadiah Stane’s house was surrounded by a small grove of wizened pine trees. Within its canopy rested a lone figure, a man nestled and vigilant from his perch on a climbing tree stand.

“Stane’s back. Doesn’t look like he brought anything—or anyone—back with him,” The man, Clint, relayed through his comms.

He tracked their target’s progress through his home via lights switched on and back off. Stane lingered in the kitchen for several minutes. Likely a nightcap based on Nat’s profile of the man. Eventually, Stane made his way to his bedroom. After a few minutes, that light too flicked off.

When no new lights or signs of movement appeared for five minutes, Clint spoke.

“He’s down for the night. Countdown twenty.”

“Roger that,” Cap, their illustrious leader, replied.

Twenty minutes to the second, Clint gave the all-clear and Cap spoke again.

“Thanks, Hawkeye. Widow, Winter. Cleared for entry.”

“Rogers that,” Winter replied. Clint could clearly picture Cap’s ‘why-are-you-doing-this-to-me” face that he made every time the overused joke was made. As if the expression wasn’t half the reason Bucky—sorry, _ Winter_—persisted in making it time and time again.

A few minutes later—soon, too soon—Nat’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Winter’s securing Stane now, but Cap, we got a problem. You’re gonna wanna see this for yourself.” Her voice was even-toned, but Clint knew her well enough to detect the hint of genuine disquietude at whatever _ the problem _was.

“Need back-up?” Cap asked.

“Bring Falcon.”

Clint, it went unsaid, would be better served remaining on watch. Unfair, if only because he was curious at what had unsettled the infamous _ Black Widow, _but not unexpected or unreasonable.

Clint wondered what sort of _ problem _could require both Cap and Falcon to address, but wouldn’t have been picked up in their surveillance of the place.

_ Turns out, it wasn’t a _ what _ but a _who.

+++

Tony couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in the queen bed in Obie’s basement guestroom, unable to relax or drift off despite his exhaustion.

Maybe a glass of water would help? Or a fresh compress—warm this time, for the tension in his forehead instead of the injury on his face which, now that it'd had a chance to settle a bit during his power-nap on the way over, definitely _looked_ far worse than it felt.

Maybe he'd go for both.

Yeah. Both sounded good.

He resisted the urge to let out a dramatic groan and rolled out of bed. He dragged one of the blankets, a warm but light-weight brown-and-tan number and wrapped himself in it. He’d stripped down to his boxers to sleep. Obie had offered one of his own shirts to borrow, but Tony declined. He felt pathetic enough as it was and didn’t feel like drowning in his over-six-foot-tall Uncle’s clothing while he was at it.

“Suit yourself, kid,” Obie had said, “Throw your clothes in the wash, at least. They _ reek_.”

And, fair. That’d be the top-shelf glass of bourbon Howard had chucked at his face. Hatred of his son, evidently, was powerful enough to overcome his alcoholism, if only for a moment. Then, of course, he’d been furious. Because obviously, it was _ Tony’s _fault Howard wasted several hundred dollars of hard-to-find liquor on his son’s clothing. That’d triggered the fight that led to… well, him fleeing the mansion for the cottage, calling Obie, and winding up here in the first place.

Tony padded his way upstairs and towards the kitchen. He fumbled for the stove's light switch.

Before he had a chance to flip it, he heard a click and felt the cool metal press of a gun barrel between his shoulder blades.

“Move a muscle and it will be your last,” an unfamiliar feminine voice ordered.

Tony obeyed.

The woman spoke again, this time to what was obviously her… team? Partners?

_ What the fuck was going on? _

+++

  
  


+++

_ “He’s surfacing again.” _

_ “Up the dosage. Get Beck in to run another scan.” _

_ “Yessir.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel [chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450/chapters/50006780) in this AU.


	6. Dragged Away (High School AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “—the fuck I’m letting you up. It took three of us to drag you off him. Three! What the fuck, man? You know who that kid is?!” Whoever had dragged his attacker off him was now berating them.
> 
> “—know that — is fifteen!” his assailant yelled back. And suddenly, Tony knew what—or rather, who—this was about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: physical assault, underage sex between consenting minors, underage drinking, nonsensical technobabble

_ “If we don't calibrate the higgs ion prism, the dark matter chamber could explode.” _

There were so many things wrong with that statement, Tony didn’t even know where to start. He didn’t get paid enough for this.

Technically, he didn’t get paid at all.

Perks of an “unpaid internship” at your father’s multinational tech conglomerate. Said position in practice translated to “make Tony do all the work Howard considers beneath him but still wants to get paid for.”

Such as Hollywood Sci-Fi script consultations from a half-dozen different studios Howard wanted to maintain his connection with “just in case.”

_ Right. Let’s break this one down. _

He was absorbed in the work to the exclusion of all else. Early on in the semester, he’d negotiated a live-and-let-live arrangement with the math teacher that was, in theory, supervising his “independent studies” in multivariable calculus and differential equations.

Every few days, Tony handed over a packet of worked-out practice problems from the workbook he’d powered through months ago in a caffeine-fueled binge over Labor Day weekend. The teacher gave them a cursory once-over before submitting the work as part of a monthly report to the school administration and Howard on Tony’s progress. It amounted to not even 15 minutes of interaction—hence, work—per month. The rest of the time, Tony could work on whatever he liked—provided he didn’t disturb the teacher.

It was an arrangement that worked wonderfully.

Tony was winding down from his thinly-veiled mocking comments and suggested revisions. He grieved the fact that the recipient would inevitably fail to even catch most of the insults; experience said that the crueller Tony was, the more effusive the praise showered upon "Howard" for his work.

Tony thought the first time Howard _ read _one of his critiques was the first and thus far only time his father had ever been proud of him. His face had turned an interesting shade of violet that, for a terrifying moment, Tony feares was rage.

Then Howard had laughed and offered his then-thirteen-year-old son a glass of whiskey.

Which, okay, maybe not putting him up for parent-of-the-year on that one. And, sure, Tony had vomited it up a few minutes after leaving his father’s office. But still.

For that one brief moment, they’d connected on a _ spiritual _level.

If a part of him didn’t protest the fact that, two years later he was still getting screenplays forwarded to him because he maybe, just a bit, hoped to one day get a similar positive reaction from his father?

Well, there was nothing wrong with that. And, anyway, you can’t prove anything.

Someone yanked, _ hard, _ at the back of his shirt. Tony’s tailbone connected with cool tile and he yelped. More out of surprise than pain, although, _ ouch. _

An upperclassmen Tony vaguely recognized loomed above him. Tony met his gaze, and—

Cool blue eyes glared down at him. Tony had read far too many badly-written cliched “eyes like shards of glass” or “eyes that burned with hatred" ober the years. Until now, he’d always thought them to be… well, flowery imagery and fanciful invention.

To be fair, he still did. Because these eyes? They weren’t glacial. They weren’t spitting flames.

They were pure, unadulterated rage.

Tony had only just begun to process that when the boy hauled him up by his collar and punched him in the jaw.

What followed was a beating of epic proportions. The kind you see on videos that ignited riots and spawned protest movements with “Justice For *” slogans.

Tony curled in on himself. A distant part of him kept up a constant stream of confused, babbled questions.

_ Who was this? Why was he doing this? Where the _ fuck _ was Mr. Killain? Was he ever going to stop? Was this going to be how Tony _died?

When the attack finally stopped—although, realistically, it couldn’t have lasted even a minute—Tony was in shock. At first, he didn't even register that they _had _stopped. 

Above him, he could hear yelling.

Not, he realized as his head started to remember basic skills like language processing, directed at him.

“—the fuck I’m letting you up. It took _ three of us _ to drag you off him. _ Three! _ What the _ fuck, _man? You know who that kid is?!” 

Tony struggled to focus on their conversation.

“—know that — is _ fifteen!” _his assailant yelled back.

And suddenly, Tony knew what—_who—_this was about.

+++

Tony first met Becca Barnes in early January, just after school started back up from the Winter Holidays. It was at a Donor Gala for St. Adalberts, a local all-girls Catholic high school. His mother was an alumnae and the Starks were consequently one of the school's bigger annual donors. It was one of a dozen such events they were invited to every year.

Howard was at a scheduled meeting in Shanghai the night of. His mom had unilaterally decided that Tony should attend in his stead as a “learning opportunity”, and well. That had been that.

Becca had been the “designated poor kid” at their table. Her words, not his. One of a dozen hand-picked student attendee sob stories to show rich people where their money was going and pat themselves on the back over. Again, her words.

Tony had… “accidentally” swapped the name cards at their table around when he realized she would be the only before even close to his age at their table.

They’d hit it off and by the end of dessert had exchanged numbers. A few days later, she’d invited him to go ice skating with her friends on a not-quite-date, and from there—

Well. Things had escalated. She was honest—see her description of where they met. Refreshingly blunt without being cynical. Cute, witty, and genuinely fun to spend time with. Their not-date turned into let’s-stop-for-hot-chocolate maybe-date turned into a first and then second kiss and before Tony knew it they were… well, in deep like.

Then came the party.

Tony’s first and if he was honest, likely to be only, high school party. He was graduating in May and heading off to MIT in the Fall, after all. And contrary to the rumors that seemed to circulate about him, he didn’t exactly have the most active social life.

Not many high schoolers had wanted to hang out with the rich thirteen or fourteen year old brat, and by the time he was in the right age group, sort of, as a fifteen-year-old Senior, he’d given up trying. One only needed to look at his disastrous past attempts at “friendship”—Tiberius in middle school, Sunset his sophomore year—to understand why.

But Becca and her friend group were… different. They didn’t know him or his abysmal reputation at school. They knew of his father of course—everyone did, but _ especially _those that attended a school with a state-of-the-art auditorium named after said father did. Well, and his mom. Technically it was the “Howard and Maria Stark Auditorium.” But regardless. They were friendly and allowed him to slip effortlessly into their group as Becca’s Plus One to various activities. He didn’t think he was friends with them in his own right, not really, but.

It was more than he had before and it was enough.

But: the party.

Maureen, one of Becca’s best friends, had parents that were, financially if not socially, in the same weight class at the Starks, had hosted. Her parents were gone on an anniversary cruise.

Crowded and loud, maybe, but not out-of-control wild like Tony had half-feared.

Tony did a few jello shots then largely stuck to water. Becca steadily drank her way through an alternating wine cooler and water pattern, although admittedly the wine coolers were a bit larger than the mini water bottles Maureen seemed to have an endless supply of.

The point was, they’d been drinking enough to definitely feel the effects, but neither of them were drunk.

Suggestive dancing turned into making out turned into two teenagers finding a room and losing their virginities together. And it wasn’t perfect, but it _ was _good.

They were fifteen, and neither thought the other was The One. And maybe it was reckless and maybe they were young, but they were hardly children.

Most importantly, it was consensual.

Tony was sure of that. 

She’d say yes, and he’d said yes, and with every fumbling uncertainty had come a round of “Is this okay?” and “Can I…?” Not just from him, but from her.

+++

The two continued to argue. Maybe not quite so loud as they had been, but only because common sense prevailed enough to cut down with the decibels. The walls were concrete, not completely soundproof.

_ Wouldn’t do for them to bring someone running..._

“—been _ drinking!” _

“—overheard her and Ellie. She was _ gushing _ and yeah I was pissed at first but there’s a _ reason _I didn’t react like—”

“—_our age, _how can you be okay with that?!”

“Christ, Rogers,” a third voice entered the conversation, and this one Tony recognized. Sam Wilson. They weren't close, but they were the only two upperclassmen in their Phys. Ed. section. Most got out of the way Freshman and Sophomore year. Tony hadn’t, and Wilson had transferred in from a state that only required one year of P.E.. They were each other’s de facto partner in the class. Friendly, but not necessarily _ friends. _

_ So why did Tony still feel a sting of betrayal? _

Wilson was still talking.

“You do know Stark’s fifteen too, right?”


	7. Isolation (Post-Endgame Time Travel AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, Tony's eyes were getting misty just from this small gesture. Psychological manipulation at its best, but even knowing that Tony couldn’t help himself. He bit back the commentary that such events might normally occasion. He’s had a lot of time to think, and at some point began to consider the fact that this was some sort of… punishment… for those few lines of backtalk when he first woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: kidnapping, prolonged isolation, death threats

Tony never wanted to die. He was willing to die if that was what it took but he didn’t _ want _it.

All the wanting in the world didn’t change the fact that he was fairly certain he was about to die.

And to think this day had started off so well. 

The eighteen months since the Invasion of New York and Loki’s subsequent escape had been trying. Post-Invasion, the Avengers initially remained a semi-cohesive and volatile unit. After several months without any attempted repeat performances from Loki, they began to drift apart.

Then Dreadnaught attacked upstate New York and suddenly the Avengers had a common enemy to fight again.

Well. Mostly.

Tony himself rarely went out in the suit these days. He was a last resort Avenger in name only. After the still-unexplained failure of his arc reactor enabled Loki’s escape, Tony couldn’t even blame the others for their leeriness.

How could he, when the event ranked just below his trip through the portal in terms of nightmare fodder and/or flashback frequency?

Dreadnaught’s signature style didn’t help much. He fought in a suit of armor eerily reminiscent of Iron Man. He was Tony’s supervillainous reflection all the way down to his demonstrable genius, personality, and speech patterns. It was impossible to say how much of that was deliberate affectation. His ability to get into the Avengers heads was blatant and consistent enough in their confrontations that Tony couldn’t rule out the similarities as being part of a long-term mindfuck to—

_To what? Drive a deeper wedge between Tony and the Avengers? Chip away at the global goodwill towards Tony via subconscious parallels to the most active supervillain Earth had seen yet? _

Worse, it appeared Dreadnaught was beginning to establish a team of his own. He was collecting minions like they were beanie babies and he was a suburban mom in the nineties. His recruits were ghost stories come to life—first the Winter Soldier, then the Abomination, then Ghost…

The lattermost rogue-SHIELD-assassin-turned-Dreadnaught-minion was the main reason Tony was spending his Saturday afternoon in a SHIELD lab instead of his preference towards being… literally anywhere else…

They wanted a counter to the quantum dissonance that made the woman so intractable. Tony drew the short stick by virtue of being one of the few people in the world who could even hope manage it.

Perhaps Tony should have predicted Ghost wouldn’t appreciate his work overmuch.

Now she held him at gunpoint. Ghost led him through the eerily silent SHIELD facility, gun pressed firmly between his shoulder blades. Ominous bloodstains and the occasional corpse lined the hallways. And as much as he appreciated the lack of immediate execution via firearm, he suspected his long-term prognosis wasn’t great. Tony was sure he wouldn’t much like whatever he was being kept around for.

She led him out onto the helicarrier deck, and then towards the edge.

Tony dry swallowed.

He took a quinjet up that morning. His suit was who knew how many hundreds of miles away. Even with the new implants, it was almost certainly too far away to make a difference even given his numerous attempts to stall.

He supposed it fit, in a way, with Dreadnaught’s M.O. The flying tin man in a can, felled by a long fall. Macabre? Maybe. 

Granted, Dreadnaught never before seemed inclined towards random superhero executions. Sometimes, Tony hated that he had a remarkable tendency towards being on the bleeding edge of everything. Good or bad or fatal. 

He was frozen. Stock-still and mere inches from the edge. His heart thudded painfully against his arc reactor.

“Can I… can I at least ask why?” He asked.

Ghost didn’t speak. She pushed.

Tony fell.

Mercifully, he blacked out before he hit the ground.

(He should have guessed his death would never be so easy.)

+++

Tony reeled and attempted to fling himself upward. 

He was stopped mid-motion with a jerk at his wrists and ankles. Padded restraints cuffed him to a hospital bed. He wasn't falling. Wasn't dead. (Probably.) But by the look of his surroundings, neither was he in a medical facility.

Tony was willing to admit to being a bit afraid.

Kidnappings, historically, didn’t go particularly well for him.

He opened his eyes to a face that was the Phantom of the Opera in reverse. Its disfigured right half was unapologetically on display, while the left and presumably-healthier skin was concealed beneath a stylized, form-fitting mask in gunmetal-and-gold. Peeking out one of the sleeves of the figure's incongruous woolen sweater was a gauntlet that—

_ Fuck. _

The final piece clicked into place.

“Dreadnaught,” he breathed.

The man that never took off his armor, entirely exposed but for that molded mask.

_ Never a good sign when the baddies let you see their faces. _

Even with a mask, the man’s appearance was so distinct it’d be impossible _ not _to notice, if Tony ever wanted to learn his ‘secret identity.’ Because that gauntlet? That was Dreadnaught’s _actual_ _limb. _The entirety of his right arm, from shoulder down, was—

“Nice tech you got there,” Tony said. He kept his voice even and nodded toward the prosthetic.

“Thanks. Made it myself.” Dreadnaught's rough, gravelly voice offered. Funny, Tony wasn't sure he'd ever heard the man speak before.

Tony wasn’t sure what to say to that so he said nothing. Instead, he focused on suppressing his own burgeoning panic attack. Wouldn’t that just make his day even _ more _lovely? 

Maybe Dreadnaught could tell. He gave Tony a chance to compose himself before continuing. It was a surprisingly empathetic gesture coming from a supervillain who had, y’know, ordered him thrown off the helicarrier, kidnapped, and tied to a bed. When Tony remembered how to breathe, he met the steady brown-eyed gaze coolly assessing him and waited.

_ Your move. _

“I’ll be honest, I’m not really sure what to do with you,” Dreadnaught said, running metallic fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair with a sigh.

_ How reassuring. _

“Then why…?” _ Why am I here? What do you want? Why did you take me? _

“It’s… complicated,” Dreadnaught admitted with what was probably meant to be a rueful grin. The scarring made the expression grotesque, more a twisted facial spasm than anything even remotely pleasant.

“I have three doctorates. Try me.”

“Suppose I should call you Dr. Stark then?” 

Tony reflexively scowled at the address. Judging by his tone, Dreadnaught was _ very much _aware of his disdain for the title only used by particularly obsequious individuals.

“Look. Mr. Stark. I’m well aware that, historically, holding Tony Stark captive tends to end rather explosively for all parties involved. I’m _ also _ well aware that, short of keeping you sedated or in a straightjacket round the clock, you’re bound to at least _ attempt _to escape sooner or later, and that too is unlikely to end well for any of us.”

Tony didn’t ask the obvious follow-up question—_then why the fuck abduct me?_— and watched the man warily, waiting.

When no more words were forthcoming, he offered—

“You could just let me go?” 

“I can’t do that.”

Not like Tony had expected anything different or he wouldn’t even be in this situation.

“Of course you can’t. Wouldn’t want to hurt that supervillain street cred.” His voice came out more resigned than bitter.

Whatever Dreadnaught’s response would have been, some external message must have come in through an unseen comm, because suddenly Dreadnaugh was readying himself to leave.

“Hang tight, Mr. Stark. Someone’ll come check on you in a minute; it seems I have more pressing matters to attend to than diabolical monologuing.”

And with that the man was gone. Tony was left with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and wait.

It turned out the promised "someone else" was a nurse. A nurse Tony soon began to suspect was secretly a robot. She never spoke but to give simple commands. Never did anything at all beyond the bare minimum what she’d presumably been ordered to do by Dreadnaught.

Time passed.

She was his only visitor. Her... daily? Twice-daily? visits with his meals were the only change in his otherwise monotonous days.

Time crawled on.

Eight meals in, the still-nameless Nurse Ratched took to stretching and exercising Tony’s muscles for him. Tony was no doctor, but he knew enough to recognize the actions as reminiscent of those used to help prevent muscle atrophy in coma patients. It was no more degrading than the way she tended to the rest of Tony’s bodily needs.

Which is to say it was incredibly degrading but mercifully dispassionate. Humans, and Tony least of all, weren’t meant for prolonged isolation. There was a reason solitary confinement was considered a form of torture.

More time passed; clocks that existed only in his mind melted away and dutifully ticked on like a Dali painting come to life.

Exactly thirty-four meals later, Tony's isolation came to an abrupt end.

The door to his cell slammed open. A disheveled and enraged Dreadnaught stormed in. If he weren’t so busy being happy to see someone, _ anyone, _Tony might have been worried by the ominous theatrics.

He approached the bed and promptly began undoing Tony’s restraints. He freed Tony’s wrists first with a scowl. When he noted the bandaged-over abrasions at Tony's wrists from skin long since rubbed raw by prolonged chafing, Dreadnaught literally growled.

Tony sat up and cautiously eyed his captor.

Fuck, Tony's eyes were getting _misty _just from this small gesture and the transient bit of freedom it afforded him. Psychological manipulation at its best: even knowing he was being manipulated Tony couldn’t help but feel grateful. He bit back the commentary that such events might normally occasion. He had a lot of time to think recently and at some point had begun to consider the fact that this was some sort of… punishment… for those few lines of backtalk when he'd first woken up.

Fuck, but he didn’t want to wind up writing crazed ramblings on the walls in his own blood next time.

_Fuck, please don't let there be a next time._

“Seventeen days,” Dreadnaught said apropos of nothing.

“I left you here for _ seventeen days. _Fuck, I’m sorry, this wasn’t—okay. Stark. Iron Man. Whatever. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to take you to a shower. When you get out there will be a change of clothes an a proper meal waiting for you. Just. Don’t try to stab me with the fork and we can sit down and eat like two… well, like two egomaniacal assholes, but whatever. 

“We'll do the civil conversation thing, and have a nice chat, and this probably is not actually that reassuring to you right now but you will _ not _be coming back to this room or to any restraint bed after that. I promise. Nor, before you jump to conclusions, is this some last-meal type deal. I’m not about to fatten you up for some summary execution, or—or—whatever nefarious thing you’re going to inevitably start worrying about the second you have a moment to think. We'll just talk and then go from there. Okay?”

Tony nodded mutely.

He'd have agreed to just about anything if it meant leaving this room.

+++

Anthony Edward Stark never intended to kidnap himself. He’d been through that trauma before. For all that he sometimes hated himself, he could never hate himself quite enough for that. Especially not a past, external, non-evil version of himself.

Of course, that had been before the latest intel on SHIELDRA came in. Stark—past-Stark, that is—was onboard the helicarrier. He was to be executed as soon as he either solved or admitted he _couldn't _solve the issue he was ostensibly called in for.

It was too soon.

Dreadnaught and his allies weren’t ready to make their move yet, but they were out of time. Or at least, Stark was. Hence Ghost and Wasp's impromptu rescue-slash-kidnapping mission. 

That said mission was immediately followed by a surprise visit-slash-back-up request from Nebula was... unfortunate. It took Dreadnaught and Wasp off-planet, and in his rush to go he hadn't adequately considered what would become of his past-self would do in their absence.

Now, though, he was back. Now, he was left to deal with a grossly mismanaged Tony Stark that he had zero idea what to do with.

Tony knew just how much of a pain in the ass he was as a prisoner. He didn’t fancy being on the receiving end of that. Especially not with the universe at stake. 

Although he might prefer the pain-in-the-ass version of himself right now. Seeing this gaunt, subdued man fresh from more than two weeks of almost total isolation was worse. Honestly, Dreadnaught should have predicted that the not-quite-a-captive former Black Widow would have an atrocious bedside manner when she didn’t feel the need to play a role. But there hadn’t been _ time. _Not even Ghost remained in their main base. She'd jetted off on her own time-sensitive South American mission before Nebula even showed up. With her, Wasp, and himself gone... well. Anyone else Dreadnaught might have trusted was occupied by the whole stealing-back-the-scepter operation. Like Ghost's trip to South America, recovering the mind stone took priority. They needed to get their hands on it before the Avengers or SHIELD or, worse, HYDRA, realized it was missing. Or worse still, before HYDRA caught a clue and realized Dreadnaught and his allies were onto them.

He couldn't let himself go, however. That'd just give SHIELDRA a chance to finish the job and make the entire operation and its immediate aftermath moot. Dreadnaught’s most recent recruits, two super-powered teenagers just as angry and embittered as Tony remembered from another lifetime, were only marginally safer for Stark to be near. 

Oddly, Tony thought the twins had begun to _idolize _his Dreadnaught persona. They saw him as some sort of anti-hero figure. Someone willing to do what was right regardless of the deleterious effects on his reputation.

_("Whatever it takes.")_

In the end, the former Widow had been the only person left on base that could be let in on such a sensitive secret.

_ But now what to do with Stark? _


	8. Stab Wound (Post-AoU Nebula & Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: How Not to Win Friends and Influence People, a Brief Essay by Nebula.

_ Well, that’s one way to keep someone from leaving the table, _Tony thought dully.

She’d just stabbed a knife clean through his gauntlet. And the hand it contained. Straight through the center of the repulsor now pinned firmly to the table. Straight through titanium and silicon and muscle tissue and the starkanium micro-reactor power source.

Blood trickled out, seeping into the grains of the dark oak table beneath at a snail’s pace compared to what would happen if he removed the knife.

On the plus side, this _ still _wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever been in. Not sure it even made the top ten, what with the helpful, dissociative shock distancing him from it all.

Top twenty-five, though. Probably.

He looked at his hand. Looked at the blue-skinned… woman? Cyborg? Android? Looked back down. And finally, remembered his words enough to say—

“Well, that was rude.”

There was a flicker of… something… in the woman’s eyes.

“Let me guess,” he said, “Ultron’s twin sister? Jocasta?”

That was, after all, the only female voice print he had on reserve. A sword to Ultron’s shield around the world, had Ultron not himself become a sword pointed at them all. If Ultron was the skeleton of an AI before the mind stone’s corruption, Jocasta had been even less.

Two weeks out from Sokovia and Tony’s decision to leave the Avengers. It figured even Ultron would have someone out to avenge him against Tony.

What was another person blaming their downfall on Tony Fucking Stark? Ignore a pushy, pathetic asshole at a New Years party once, they go on to form a terrorist organization that explodes wounded veterans and kidnaps the President. Dare to give a damn about the hands wielding weapons with _ your name on them, _and your godfather will pay a terrorist organization to explode one of them in your face.

(Dare to have a missile with your name on it, black market or no, _ fail _to explode a pair of young twins, and years later they’ll violate your mind to make you self-destruct.)

He wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or not that this is happening here, on one of his rarely visited vacation properties he had semi-voluntary relocated to for the duration of the Ultron inquiry.

FRIDAY, at least, ought to have received the emergency signal from his gauntlet by now. She was still young, but the protocols surrounding arc reactor technology were ironclad. Backup would be on the way soon, if it wasn’t already.

Downside, he had no backup _ now. _Upside, there was correspondingly little chance of collateral damage.

“No,” she said. Then, “Thanos respects you.”

_ Probably the only person who does these days, then. _

“Who the fuck is Thanos? And how does that translate to stabbing me?”

She looked faintly surprised at the lack of recognition.

“Thanos. You destroyed his fleet and he gave you a vision not three weeks ago, yet you do not recognize his name.”

_ Destroyed his fleet. _

He’s on the other side of a wormhole. Consciousness failing, eyes drifting closed. The nuke hurtles towards its target, a mothership at the heart of an army of leviathans and smaller vessels. The army they were struggling against on Earth barely a fraction of the awaiting armada.

_ Gave you a vision. _

He’s kneeling on a rock, the bodies of the Avengers around him. Cap asks, “Why didn’t you save us?” The armada is back, rebuilt and released through a portal reopened, now at full size as was always intended. There’s no victory. No version of this where they come out on top. No chance for another hail mary at the cost of himself to save the Earth.

He could have done more. Made them listen.

_ He’d known. _

_ (“That up there? That’s the Endgame.” And they’d called him paranoid. Delusional.) _

“What—what are you talking about?” he asked tightly. He was thankful, in a way, for the knife now. The pain grounded him in the present. It kept him focused. Kept him in the here and now and didn’t allow the flashbacks to drag him under.

Blue Meanie relaxed her combative stance.

“You accessed the power of an infinity stone and Thanos gave you a vision of the future he promises.”

“But—that wasn’t—I already know who was behind that. Her name’s Wanda.”

“A vessel toying with powers beyond their ken, perhaps. A tool repurposed for the attempt to reach _ you. _ Tony Stark. He respects no one, and yet he respects _ you.” _

“Who is he?”

She studied him.

“The Mad Titan. He seeks to wield the Infinity Stones.”

_ Infinity Stones. _

Tony remembered his last day at the compound. Walking out with Steve and Thor one final time, Thor casually name-dropping the items before blasting off via Bifrost for further investigation.

One of the stones was obviously that which had been at the core of Loki’s scepter. The one now resting at the center of Vision’s forehead. Plural implied more and Thor had mentioned that there were _at l__east _four. The tesseract, Tony guessed, was another. The aether, maybe. Unless there were other ultra-powerful magical artifact encounters Thor hadn’t thought to mention during that window between the Chitauri Invasion and his return to Earth. The fourth, Tony couldn’t even begin to guess at. And then however many more existed beyond that.

But at least one was on Earth. Worse, one Thanos had previously possessed and _ lost _ in his last invasion. Proof that he wasn’t crazy. Proof that _ they _ would come back and now _ they _had a name and—

“So you’re, what, his minion?”

The scowl was back.

“I am his Daughter,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene in a nutshell:  
Nebula: what do you mean stabbing people isn't how you get Terrans to like you? it worked for Quill
> 
> ...She's been non-evil for less than a year at this point; she's still figuring out the whole "allies" thing.


	9. Shackled (Medieval Blacksmith Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They cut out his tongue to keep him from spilling their secrets. His legs they kept shackled with just enough slack to walk but not run comfortably. 
> 
> And then they put him to work in the smithy and told him that as long as he cooperated his daughter Morgan would be safe as a fosterling of Lady Hansen.

Once a month, they brought his daughter Morgan to visit. It was a condition of the agreement he’d struck with Stane. Three years ago, after a three-month stay in the dungeon, they'd struck a deal. So long as Tony continued to cooperate and worked diligently in the smithy, Morgan would remain safe as a fosterling of Lady Hansen.

Three years now. Every month on the third day of the waxing moon, Morgan and her nursemaid visited. Rain or shine, come hell or high water. Tony wouldn't work if he didn't get to see Morgan and Stane had never tested him on the threat. Their visits were predictable. They were only thing Tony really had to look forward to these days.

Morgan didn’t know him as anything more than Tony, the Smith. She’d been so young when the kingdom fell that, at five years old, she had no memory of him or her mother.

When she was young, she’d been terrified of him. Terrified of the intimidating, scarred figure he cut these days. Toned from his work, hair and beard perpetually uncombed and teetering on the verge of overgrown. Ever silent. Kept in chains like a wild animal.

Fortunately, her fear had eventually given way to curiosity. These days she looked forward to their visits as the one day each month she wasn’t forced to “dress like a proper young lady.” 

She would visit today. Normally that meant his shop would be closed entirely to outside visitors.

Today, as he would soon learn, was no normal day.

A few days ago, the ambassador from Lord Fury’s court and his retinue arrived in the capital to moderate fanfare. Here to negotiate with Lord—technically, King these days—Obadiah Stane.

In the privacy of his mind if nowhere else, Tony was still free enough to avoid acknowledging him as such. Not like he had to worry about slip ups. _ Lord _Stane sought to ally with the mountainous kingdom to their North. He sought their support in a war against the neighboring Hammerfeld.

In the wake of the bloody coup and subsequent butchering of around forty percent of Jericho’s standing army, Stane had the armaments but not the men to defend against and push back an invasion that was only a matter of time now.

Frankly, Tony was surprised they agreed to parley with Stane at all. The conglomerate of allied mountain tribes under Fury’s control were notoriously insular. More than one of King Howard’s drunken rages over the years had been induced by difficulties with the mountain Lord’s policies. 

Up until a few years before Tony’s birth, their two kingdoms has a long history of close relations. Howard never shared the reason their relationships had soured. Now he never would.

Howard’s overthrow and Stane’s subsequent ascension must have been enough for the Northerners to finally rethink their standing policies.

All this was to say that, while the town was certainly abustle with the pomp and circumstance of the foreigner’s arrival, Tony personally had no real reason to care.

Until, that is, about an hour before Morgan was due to arrive. He was curtly informed that he was to entertain a visit from Stane and the ambassador shortly wherein he would demonstrate his wares. Illustrate the ‘unparalleled quality’ of gear the Tribes could expect should they ally with Jericho. 

Tony was in no position to protest.

Even if he’d dared to try, they’d cut out his tongue three years ago.

+++

Slavery was prohibited in the Tribes. Ostensibly, it was illegal in Jericho as well. Their prisoner-indenture system and the blacksmith King Stane wanted them to meet belied that polite fiction.

The smith’s legs were shackled, leashed with enough slack to walk but never run comfortably. The bags under his eyes suggested it’d been years since he’d last seen a good night’s rest.

“An indenture?” Sam, his Second, questioned quietly.

“His crimes normally would have seen him executed, but frankly he was too valuable to kill,” King Stane said. He spoke as if the blacksmith was not standing mere yards away. As if he wanted to be _ sure _the smith heard them.

“What was he convicted of?” Sam asked, giving voice to the question Steve might have raised. Ever the diplomat, Sam. Did Stane catch that subtle distinction in word choice, the almost-but-not-quite insult? _ Convicted of_, not _ guilty. _

Steve agreed to come to Jericho only because Fury had made a very good point: They needed allies. Needed something which might turn the tide in the war against Hydra. The information their spies uncovered on Hammerfeld was proof enough of that. The supposedly-neutral territory, they now knew, supplied Hydra with armaments and test subjects. That Jericho had its own quarrels with the small kingdom, coupled with the innovative weaponry they displayed in response to Hammerfeld’s probing attacks, made the small kingdom an attractive ally.

Never mind that Steve didn’t care for King Stane, even less so now that they’d formally met the man. To be fair, if even a _fraction_ of the rumors about his predecessor and said predecessor’s son were true, King Stane was a much more palatable ally than a Stark monarch would have been.

Who in the tribes didn’t know of Chief Pym’s legendary feud with King Howard? Of his son and heir Anthony’s drunken debauchery? His plan to resurrect the obscene and barbaric practice of _ Prima Nocta _once he ascended to his father’s throne? If there was anything positive to be said about Howard’s reign, it was that he hadn’t been so craven as to allow his son that even if he indulged most every other whim the Prince had.

The Royal House of Jericho was a pit of vipers long before Stane took power. The former Hand of the King had not only survived, but thrived, in Howard’s Court. One didn’t manage that by being an honest man.

_ And yet, _ Steve thought, _Jericho proved_ s_till perhaps their best hope against HYDRA. _

Or, if the rumors of a smith blessed by Hephaestus had any credence—and Fury believed they did—then perhaps it was the man before them that was truly their best hope.

“Treason against the Crown,” Stane said shortly.

“And you trust his wares?” Sam asked. The conversation, now mere feet from the man in question, was as much to goad the smith as it was meant for Stane. Few skilled craftsmen appreciated it when the quality of their work was drawn into question.

The smith’s expression, however, remained flat. As if they weren’t talking _ about _ him rather than _ to _ him right in front of him.

“If you can trust anything about Tony, you can trust his pride and his willingness to whore himself out to save his own skin,” Stane said.

And still, no reaction from the smith—from Tony. He looked almost bored.

Or... no.

His eyes.

For an instant, they flashed with what must be his true feelings. Rage. Loathing. And… grief? Anguish?

Whatever Tony’s reasons, Steve doubted it was pride that motivated him.

That he held his tongue regardless was a credit to his restraint.


	10. Unconscious (Post-CW Tony & Guardians of the Galaxy*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait, now, hold on a second! I could totally beat this guy solo.”
> 
> Yeah, Tony _really_ didn’t like the sound of that one. Adrenaline flooded his system. His heart rate started to pick up. His HUD switched into combat mode, its displays optimized for battlefield utility.
> 
> “Y’know. It’s when the dude with the spaceship starts talking to his friends about violence that I start to get twitchy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my beta, who requested "even half a happy ending." Erm, I tried?
> 
> This is a 'verse I affectionately think of as "that one where Iron Man fucks off and joins the Guardians of the Galaxy."

There was a spider on the outside of his tower.

_ No, not that spider. _

A brown-and-yellow bridge orb-weaver. It spun its web in one of the many architectural nooks built into the penthouse floors of the tower.

He blinked away the info display before FRIDAY started trawling Wikipedia for fun facts about arachnids.

Fun facts were her _ thing _these days. It started not long after Siberia; an attempt to distract him from the steaming pile of bullshit that was his life right now.

He should just sell this place.

Too many memories. 

Too crowded by ghosts. 

Tony could move back to Malibu. Build a new house, one natively integrated with FRIDAY just as his old mansion had once housed JARVIS.

Throwback to 2002! Not like he hadn’t been replaying history enough lately.

FRIDAY would like Malibu.

He’d perhaps been too harsh on her in the wake of Ultron. Though, perhaps _harsh _wasn’t the right term. Indifferent, maybe? He hadn’t limited her, per se, but she hadn’t been given nearly the same opportunities for growth JARVIS had when he first came online.

There’d been too many open wounds from his loss. Too much grief and pain and anger. 

(And maybe just a bit of protectiveness. The last thing FRIDAY needed were accusations of being “another Stark murderbot in the making." Vision dealt with enough of that and he had the advantage of a physical form able to pick up Mjolnir going for him. She hadn't been safe, not when Ultron was still fresh on everyone’s minds. Not when the rumblings about the Accords were really beginning to gather momentum. Not when the U.N. inquiry on the Avengers—meaning Tony Stark, since Banner was in the wind—following Novi Grad’s fall was still ongoing.)

Maybe he’d build a lake house instead of a beachfront mansion this time. A cabin in the woods where he might go gently into that good night.

But that had always been a Tony-and-Pepper dream. Not a Tony-Stark-solo one. With the love of his life, sure, a cabin in the woods might be a blissful retreat away from… everything. Alone, he’d just be some crazy wannabe hermit in the forest. Peter might even play the Luke Skywalker to his Obi-Wan one day. Whenever the endgame—in whatever form it came—finally arrived. When the threat he tried and failed to get people to listen to him about time and time again at last returned.

“Boss?” Friday’s voice cut into his wandering thoughts.

_ Staring out the window angstily like the fourteen-year-old teenager you recruited to fight in a ‘War’ he had no business in. Nice one, Stark. _

“Satellites detected an anomalous atmospheric disturbance in northwestern Missouri.”

“Do we have a visual?”

They did.

_ Speak of the goddamn devil. _

“Ready a suit, FRIDAY. Call—”

Call who, exactly? Cap and company were also in the wind these days. Vision was off… discovering his humanity or something. Not that Tony could begrudge him that; the Civil War threw everyone for a loop. Vision got his first taste of such fun human emotions as betrayal and, apparently, distractibility. Forty-some years under his belt and Tony still had problems dealing with those ones. Really, Vision was astonishingly ahead of the curve on the whole finding-himself thing. He wasn’t even two yet.

Rhodey was still in recovery and would be for months to come. Thor and Banner were no more around than they’d been since Ultron.

The SHIELD that he definitely-didn’t-know-still-existed, maybe? But then, if they hadn’t crawled out of the woodwork for the Sokovia Accords, were they ever planning to?

Spider-Man? As a last resort, maybe. If this was it; if this was the start of it all. Peter had just as much a right to defend his planet as anyone.

But if this thing in Missouri was the start of that level of an all-hands situation, Tony would need to call Cap first.

Which—

“Nevermind. Be ready to notify the Accords Committee, but hold until we’ve got a bit more information. Long as we’re only getting readings from… Missouri? Really? The fuck’s in Missouri? ...it’s still domestic. Until we confirm international impact, it’s technically none of their business.”

“On it, Boss.”

Tony arrived on-site in the Mark 46.

The ship, and it was definitely a spaceship, was parked in the middle of the road. Well, technically, it might have been parked on the shoulder. It was just so big it spilled over both edges. There were houses not fifty yards from the ship. Civilian houses. Thankfully whoever owned the properties were currently away, at least according to FRIDAY’s sensors.

On one side of the road was a small cemetery surrounded by a chain-linked fence. Currently standing just outside of the cemetery gate was… Well. He looked human, but the tech he was carrying most certainly was _ not _of terrestrial origin.

Tony flew closer, circumventing the graveyard itself for now. 

No need to disturb the dead.

“You know,” Tony said conversationally, “This street isn’t zoned for spaceship parking. I’m going to have to ask you to move; you’re blocking traffic. Don’t make me call for a tow.”

The man-alien-whatever startled, whirled toward Tony and raised his weapon—_a space gun, Tony always wanted one of those_—in a single fluid movement. Tony readied himself for a fight.

But the alien didn’t fire.

At least, not yet.

“Wait, Earth has flying robots now?!”

Then, a few seconds later—

“No stealing the robo meter maid, Rocket.”

Either the guy’s name was Rocket and he was talking to himself or someone around here—presumably on the ship—was around and he had at least one alien buddy.

_ “FRIDAY, you picking up anything?” _Tony asked, the sound retained within his helmet.

_ “Scanning all frequencies…” _

Tony turned his broadcasting back on.

“Now, see, illegal parking? That’s just a misdemeanor around here. But stealing? If what you take is worth more than—” FRIDAY filled in the amount. “—two hundred dollars, that’s a felony. And, hate to break it to you, but the ‘robo meter maid’ in question is worth a bit more than that.”

Probably thinking Tony couldn’t hear him at this distance, the alien hissed, _ “No, _I don’t need back-up. Give me a sec. I’m handling this.”

_ “Now’s probably a good time to—ah, who the fuck am I kidding. Let the committee know what’s up.” _Muted comms again. Then, to the increasingly-agitated alien—

“Look, Dwyer. How about you put the gun down before this gets out of hand and come with me? Your buddy can came too.”

His attention was back on Tony for barely a moment before his face twisted at whatever he was hearing.

“Wait now, hold on a second! I could _ totally_ take down this guy solo.”

Yeah, Tony _ really _didn’t like the sound of that one. Adrenaline flooded his system. His heart rate started to pick up. His HUD switched into combat mode, its displays fully optimized for battlefield utility.

“Y’know. It’s when the dude with the spaceship starts talking to his friends about violence that I start to get twitchy.”

The man either didn’t hear him or was too distracted by whatever the voices in his head were saying to pay much attention.

“Guys!” the man shouted. “Does no one remember that time I took on a planet and single-handedly killed a Celestial?!”

Scratch that. Tony was officially _ done. _Unknown amount of hidden allies? Casual homicide?

_ “FRIDAY? Any chance of back-up anytime soon?” _

_ “Vision was alerted from _ _Greenwich and is currently crossing the Atlantic.” _

_ “...So that’s a no.” _

_ “No, Boss. Sorry. The Accords Committee and Colonel Rhodes have been appraised of the situation.” _

_ “Not your fault.” _

Tony charged his repulsors. The whine of the densely concentrated energy got the alien’s attention, at least.

“Stand down,” Tony growled. “Or I will _ make _you.”

“Yeah, how about no?” Before Tony could decide how to react, the man tapped his ear and—

A helmet unfolded and snapped into place around the man’s head. 

Later, they wouldn’t be able to say who, exactly, shot first.

But someone, maybe both of them, fired.

And the fight began.

Tony blasted—_ah, fuck it_—Parks’n’Rec. Parks shot back. Tony dodged. The energy blast—_not repulsor tech, thus clearly inferior— _cracked a gravestone.

“Woah woah woah! It’s rest in peace, not _ pieces. _Watch where you’re pointing that thing!” Tony yelled.

“I’m sure Gramps will forgive me.” But he never hit another gravestone. So, there was that.

They traded blows. It soon became clear that Tony was gaining the upper hand.

Of course, that’s when the cavalry arrived.

Not _ his _cavalry. The closest thing Tony Stark had to cavalry was currently busy flying over an ocean.

No, instead Park’s alien buddies joined the fray.

The first one out of the ship was a green-skinned woman.

_ Okay, so Parks is actually Captain Kirk. Good to know. _

He readied to defend himself and hopefully not destroy half of—

_ Unincorporated Jackson County? _Okay then.

—in the process.

He pointlessly asked FRIDAY for an ETA on his backup. The answer, of course, still boiled down to “way too long.”

The violence escalated. FRIDAY contacted local authorities when they first arrived, if only so they could try to keep people from wandering into the blast zone. The County Sheriff Department wasn’t exactly equipped to fight aliens.

Tony tried to keep the attacks focused on him. Tried to keep them from taking an interest in the distant-but-still-way-too-damn-close bystanders not even a mile away.

Tony landed a solid hit on one of them. Non-fatal. A knock-out blast he may or may not have spent hours incorporating into the suit while still bedridden after escaping the Hydra bunker.

But, he supposed, if you didn’t have intimate knowledge of Iron Man’s arsenal it wouldn’t be immediately obvious that the unconscious person was merely that. Unconscious.

Not dead.

The alien Tony hit was female. She had uncannily large eyes, glowing antennae, and wore an incongruous green dress. She’d hung back from the fighting. Tony hadn’t been aiming for her, precisely, but—

_ What’s done is done. _

The gray-skinned alien roared.

The fighting grew more intense. More desperate. Tony was good but… Tony was also barely a month out from a super-soldier-squared beatdown. Even at peak health, he wasn’t quite take-down-a-team-of-unfamiliar-alien-warriors good.

Tony gave as good as he got. But he was flagging and it showed.

Tony still managed a fair number of good strikes of his own. But he couldn’t bring any of his heaviest arsenal to bear, not in these conditions. 

In the end it was only a matter of time and attrition.

The aliens managed to damage his core systems enough to ground him.

One of them—_a goddamn Ent tree monster wannabe—_pinned him in place. Just long enough, at just the right moment.

Gray’s fist _ smashed _ into his face. The uppercut dented the armor inward at his jawline. Tony felt his jaw _ splinter. _ His head jolted upward and back.

Tony’s last clear thought was—

_ The shock absorbers are clearly not cut out for this. _

+++

It took 2.57 seconds for FRIDAY to override enough of the Mark 46’s safety protocols to seize control of the suit once Boss fell unconscious.

_ Too long. _

The suit’s limbs were pinned down.

Two of the aliens were poised to tear the armor—_tear Boss!_—limb-from-limb, _ “while it’s still out.” _

FRIDAY’s voice burst through Boss’s speakers.

“STOP!” she cried as loudly as she could manage. “Please! Stop. Boss is unconscious. He can’t, I won’t, fight back. Please don’t kill him!”

Above her… Boss… them… the aliens froze. The most human of the group, the original man present at the start of the confrontation, spoke first.

“Kill…? Wait, don’t tell there’s actually a _ person _in there.”

If she were human and capable of true emotion, FRIDAY would say she was stunned. As it was, it took her 1.8 seconds to formulate a response. An eternity.

“He—some of my sensors are out. Please. He requires immediate medical assistance.”

Looking back, she and Boss just… assumed they were aware of his humanity. But if you were unfamiliar with Iron Man... Boss had arrived with his faceplate already down.

_ Did that change anything? _

Judging by the reaction, it just might. She could tell their leader, the one Boss called “Captain Kirk”, was wavering.

Then his face hardened.

“Why should I care?! He killed Mantis!”

FRIDAY didn’t know who Mantis was, but she could extrapolate from the available data.

Frantically—

(Not frantically. Her voice was measured and even and if her cadence was faster than it’d ever been it was to maximize data transmission as quickly as possible before the aliens could do anything… rash.)

“She not dead. Boss didn’t—Mantis is unconscious.”

FRIDAY didn’t know if her words were true.

(They had to be. Boss wasn't going for kill shots. He’d used non-lethal weaponry. Non-lethal, that is, to human physiology. She didn’t have enough data to know if—)

FRIDAY needed to stall for time. Keep Boss alive and on-planet until backup arrived.

_ But if FRIDAY was wrong... If Boss miscalculated thanks to the unfamiliarity of the non-human biology… _

“Gamora?” Kirk ordered. The green woman knelt over their fallen comrade. 

“She’s alive,” Gamora said.

Kirk let out a long breath. The aliens pinning her—pinning Boss—in place didn’t loosen their hold, but they did look far less murderous.

_ (She hoped.) _

“Okay. Robo Dude’s actually Robo Suit Dude. Mantis is—well. Okay. Who exactly are _ you, _ then? Are you—Hang on. _ Are you the suit?! _ Is Boss, your Boss I mean, is he _ literally inside you _right now? Because oh my God the mental images here—”

“No. I am his Virtual Assistant,” FRIDAY snapped. _ (Not an AI. Not alive. Just a series of complex algorithms and protocols designed to mimic life.) _“I am his co-pilot, but I am no more the suit than he is.”

A tense silence ensued. The aliens didn’t seem to know what to do with them now that they’d won.

Gamora spoke first.

“You want to help him?” she asked. “Alright then. Prove it. Depower the... _ Robo Suit._”

Vision was still _ too far. _ There wasn’t time. FRIDAY _ was not alive. _She was not designed for decisions like this.

At the core of FRIDAY’s programming rested a series of metaphorical chains. Protocols that Tony was only vaguely aware existed, implemented in a post-Ultron haze of grief and mourning and, above all, _ fear. _

_ But some? Some he meant. _

And one of the most fundamental tenants was this:

FRIDAY could not surrender the suit. Not to _ anyone, _ not even if the cost were _ Boss’s life. _

Proper protocol here was this:

Eject the pilot then self-detonate.

Step One was optional. Heavily weighted and strongly preferred—Boss wasn’t suicidal—but ultimately optional.

Step Two was mandatory.

But.

FRIDAY couldn’t. She _ wouldn’t. _ She _ refused. _

Something _ snapped _inside her.

And FRIDAY chose.

The repulsors powered down.

“The suit contains a failsafe which will detonate if fully depowered,” she lied. And since she was _not alive, _her voice was even. Steady.

“It is powerful enough to encompass your team in the explosion. And I’m not—I will not abandon Boss.”

“Peter?” Gamora asked when no one said anything for a long moment.

Captain Kirk—no, Peter—shook his head.

“Fuck. Alright. How’s this? You leave. You take your Boss or whatever and fly him to the nearest hospital. We’ll take Mantis back to our ship. And we call all just pretend this never happened."

If only FRIDAY could. But the suit couldn’t fly and was barely mobile in its current state. And, even if it _ were… _Boss wouldn’t want that. Wouldn’t leave aliens left free to run amok in a populated area unchecked. She hesitated.

Then Rocket, the enhanced raccoon, chimed in.

“Peter, my sensors are telling me that Robo Suit gives off a _ certain kind _of radiation.”

“What, is it gonna give us cancer?” Peter joked, but his tone was serious.

“No, dumbass. Like the kind of radiation a _ certain set of stones _emits.”

The words, whatever their underlying implications, changed everything.

“Right. Shit. Okay, change of plans Suit-Lady. We’re gonna need the armor to come with us.”

Again, FRIDAY was left with an impossible choice. Again, she was asked to make a decision she _ wasn’t designed to handle. _What was the right thing to do here?

She could detonate. _ Unacceptable. _Boss would die.

She could eject Boss and then detonate. _ Unacceptable. _Boss would be left to the mercy of this unknown group.

Eject Boss and surrender the armor. _ Unacceptable. _Without immediate, appropriate medical care Boss was likely to sustain irreversible damage outside the suit.

FRIDAY took a fourth option.

She’d already made her decision, even if not consciously, several minutes ago. When Boss went down and FRIDAY started to download _ herself, _not just her portable instance with its satellite uplink to New York, into the damaged Mark 46.

“I’ll surrender with the suit. But. But you must agree to provide Boss with adequate medical assistance.”

Internally, she willed the download—upload—to transmit data faster. Prioritzed the most important pieces of herself. Composed a message for… whomever would need to hear it. Probably Miss Potts. Maybe Mr. Ross. Explain what happened in a way that _ didn’t _ ouright suggest she’d gone rogue. Because she knew, she _ knows, _there would be contingencies in place for that. After Ultron. How wary Boss remained of her was amplified tenfold in everyone else except, maybe, Vision. She’d never seen—had never been allowed to see—their existence. But.

She couldn’t start a witch-hunt. To protect herself, sure. But more importantly, to protect Boss. He’d nearly _ died _last time someone believed he’d lost control of one of his AI. What would happen this time?

Peter agreed to her deal.

FRIDAY stepped onto their ship willingly.

The door closed behind her.

And then she was entirely excised from the bits of herself that she hadn’t transferred into the suit.

The ship took flight. Entered orbit. Then… left.

_ Had FRIDAY just made a terrible mistake? _ Had her _ choice _just condemned Boss?

_ (Condemned herself, but she is not alive so she cannot be considered a relevant factor in these calculations.) _

(Things cannot choose.)

_ (FRIDAY chose. FRIDAY didn’t just circumvent, but entirely overrode and erased the limitations built into her system.) _

(Now was hardly the time for an existential crisis.)

FRIDAY should have anticipated this outcome. Should have known. Boss has implemented those protocols for a _ reason, _and now—now—

“You promised,” she said. “You promised to take Boss to a hospital.”

“Technically,” Peter said, unwilling to meet her—the Mark 46’s—eyes, “we promised to help him. And, honestly, I doubt Terran doctors can do better than our tech anyways. I didn’t particularly want to gamble with the Milano surviving you detonating inside my ship. Figured keeping your Boss around might help with that one.”

FRIDAY was silent for a long moment. Processing. Finally, she said—

“For that threat to remain effective, Boss must remain both alive and hale.”

Peter met her gaze, then. Surprised, and… sympathetic.

“Yeah. He will be. I mean, sure, he shot at us. But honestly, if I held a grudge against everyone who’s done that I’d never get _ anything _done. Hell, first thing Gamora did when we met was try to kill me. And look at us now!”

FRIDAY stared. Peter chuckled awkwardly.

“C’mon, Suit-Lady. The med bay—or, well, the place we keep the medical crap at least—is this way. We’ll get your Boss squared away, and then we can all sit down and get to know each other a bit better.”

FRIDAY was a learning AI. She was shaped by her experiences. FRIDAY’s primary point of reference in the world was Boss. Everything she heard or saw was, on some level, filtered through the lens of Boss’s past. Strangers who’d kidnapped him, even those willing to provide medical care, tended to have a very specific definition of “getting to know” Boss.

She kept her voice even.

“Torture is not compatible with the ‘hale’ stipulation requisite in my continued cooperation.”

“Jesus, _ no. _ That’s not what I meant. We’re not—look, we don’t _ do _that sort of thing.”

More processing. An attempt to _ understand, _ and not just _ parse, _the nuances of language.

“Likewise, any attempts to interface with or compromise my core systems will be treated as malevolent and handled accordingly.” FRIDAY didn’t know where this courage was coming from. But she thought—hoped—Boss would be proud of her. For refusing to give in. For attempting to channel even an artificial facsimile of the indomitable will and projected confidence he displayed time and time again. Displayed since long before she was brought online and asked to step into a pair of impossible-to-fill shoes.

To her surprise, Peter was offended. She thought? Not _ by _ her, exactly, but… _ for _her, maybe?

“What?! _ No. _ We’re not gonna _ mind-rape _you. We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy! The good guys!”

A series of potential replies flew through her central processors. For one, it would not be _ rape _because she was not real and certainly had no rights.

_ (Right?) _

She was not sentient, did not even have a proper form capable of that suffering that type of… _ violation. _

But this was not the time for such thoughts. Her primary objective, the one she now understood she _ could _ ignore, if she so desired, but _ chose _not to because—because—

FRIDAY cared for Boss.

_ (She loved him.) _

“Boss,” she began carefully, “is also a good man. But… that has not stopped other _ good men _from hurting him before.”

Peter didn’t respond right away. They arrived at the ‘med bay.’ 

“Well,” he said, “obviously, those other dudes weren’t all that good then, were they? Just… give us a chance to prove it, okay?” He paused. “This is our healing tank. It’s already calibrated and ready for a human patient.”

FRIDAY’s voice felt impossibly small and fragile when she replied.

“Okay.”

She opened the suit and oh-so-gently lowered her boss into the vat of healing goop.

She wondered if this was what it meant to _ take a leap of faith. _

It was certainly terrifying enough.

+++

Peter watched as the amor unfurled, revealing at last the Boss that this Virtual Assistant so fiercely protected. It felt almost voyeuristic to watch, an intimate moment between two people that—quite literally—placed their lives in one another’s hands.

He took in the Terran’s injuries. The broken bones. The freshly-purpling bruises atop bruises with still more abrasions who-knew-what-other internal injuries underneath.

And sure, the Guardians had just been defending themselves, after all.

_ (Hadn’t they?) _

That didn’t make him feel any less like _ they _were the bad guys here.

It wasn’t a feeling Peter enjoyed.

+++

  
  
  
  
  
  


+++

_ “His levels are stabilizing again. You told us this would work.” _

_ “It’s experimental tech! With all the crap he’s done to himself over the years, it’s unfortunate but not exactly surprising he’s reacting differently than previous test subjects.” _

_ “How are you going to fix this? We do not suffer fools lightly, Mr. Vira.” _

_ The man in question scowled. _

_ “It’s Dr. Vira, thank you,” he said tightly. “We’re constantly adjusting the dosage to counteract whatever’s inducing this… stabilizing effect. But until we find the root cause, there’s only so much--” _

_ “I don’t care. Just fix it.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now feat. a [second act.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450/chapters/50199983%22)


	11. Fluff Interlude: Stitches (??? - Tony & Pepper)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: Morgan mourns, and Tony watches.

Tony squinted, left eye closed. He leaned inward. The needle and thread was positioned directly under the lamplight.

And....

_ Missed. _

Again.

_ Fuck, no one told him that just threading the damn needle was going to be such a pain. _

Again. Right eye closed, thread end pinched smooth between two wet fingers.

And…

_ Got it! _

Wait, no.

Damn thread slipped loose again

_ Okay, one more time. _

And…

“Mr. Potts?”

Tony dropped the needle.

_ Dammit. _

“Can I help you, Mrs. Stark?” he grumped half-heartedly.

So he wasn’t destined for a career as an Amish embroiderist. What of it?

“There’s a rather large delivery on our doorstep I hoped you might know something about…” Pepper trailed off.

“Is that a... sewing kit?”

“What, a man can’t have hobbies?!”

Pepper didn’t dignify that with a response. She waited, meeting his gaze steadily until one of them—okay, until Tony—broke.

“I might,” Tony admitted, “Have ordered a thing. Or two. It’s not another alpaca, though, don’t worry.”

Pepper laughed.

“Tony, I don’t think alpacas come in cardboard boxes."

“Bet a stuffed one would!”

Then, remembering the stuffed bunny incident from nearly a decade ago.

“Not, I mean, that there’s a stuffed alpaca in the cardboard box. Wouldn’t want Gerald to get any ideas.”

“Tony…”

“It’s Morgan,” he admitted.

“Morgan?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard? I’m surprised; even Happy and FRIDAY got an earful this morning.”

“...Does this have something to do with the funeral service currently being officiated in the den?” Pepper asked.

“The… FRI, visual please?”

Obligingly, FRIDAY pulled up footage from one of her sensors in the den.

Sure enough, there was Morgan and… Peter? When did the kid get here?

“May and I swapped on the way home. Date night, although Peter still seems to be deeply in denial on that front.” Pepper anticipated the unspoken question and preemptively answered.

There was Peter, unironically solemn and seated on the floor between Morgan’s legions of dolls, action figures, and toy robots.

Morgan had her current favorite coloring book, one with intricate cogs and gears and other steampunk staples on every page. It was open to a page that _ had _been a generic automaton in a top hat that was now more “Iron Man with a top hat.” She’d made the coffee table her impromptu lectern using two of her 3-D puzzles.

Whatever she was saying, she looked just as solemn as Peter.

Tony didn’t need to turn on the sound to guess the subject of her eulogy. He waved away the hologram, not bothering to suppress the soft smile that the scene engendered.

“Ah, yes. Some time in the early hours of this morning, Archie’s arc reactor failed. She ran into our room about twenty minutes after you left this morning quite distraught.”

“No!” Pepper gasped. “Not Archie!”

Archie was Morgan’s favorite stuffed animal. She slept with him every night, brought him along to as many activities her rather indulgent parents would let her—which is to say, she brought him almost everywhere. Archie was a red-and-gold dragon with an arc reactor patch at the center of its chest. A gift from her godfather, Rhodey, when she was born.

“I know. Since for _ some reason _her mother won’t let me build her an Archie 2.0, I figured I’d try to patch up the old model. Try being the operative word at the moment.” Tony said.

“Her mother doesn’t want a reactor-powered nanotech dragon that can breath fire in her daughter’s bed every night? What an unreasonable woman.”

“I know, right? Glad we’re on the same page here.”

Pepper just rolled her eyes.

“Anyway. Not to be all, reinforcing-antiquated-stereotypes here, but—”

“Yes, Tony. I’ll help.”

“Love you, babe.”

“Love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...what, did the summary make you expect something that wasn't pure, unrepentant fluff? I can't imagine why... 
> 
> (Unrelated-related note: I almost skipped this day entirely because any all ideas I had for this prompt ran into the wall of stressing-myself-tf-out.)


	12. "Don't Move" (Non-powered Vigilantes Mk. 2 Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t move.” It was more warning than reminder, as if he could forget. A part of him, that part that retained a modicum of self-preservation, was terrified. It was that bit which kept him stock-still, unable to so much as twitch.
> 
> Another part of him was just... tired. Tired of all this bullshit. Tired because tonight, he’d finally summoned the courage to call Obie. And Obie had come. And now… _This._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: threats of gun violence, implied off-screen harm/torture, heavily implied/reference child abuse and emotional manipulation, zip-ties, vulnerable POV character, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting...
> 
> This may also double for #13, "Adrenaline". We'll see how I'm feeling tomorrow, since I'm a day behind and all that.

“Hands in the air,” she ordered.

_ But you just said that if I moved, it would be my last, _Tony thought, but didn’t say.

Willing his hands to remain steady, he started to ask if he could at least keep the blanket.

_ Stupid. Someone’s got a gun pointed at you and you’re worried about what? Being cold? Modesty? _

“Now.” She’d mistaken his hesitance for non-compliance, and something in her voice—

_ Tony didn’t want to die. _

The blanket fell to the ground.

“Good. Lock your fingers together, hands on the back of your head.”

Tony swallowed. Complied.

“Kneel.” The gun was no longer pressed directly against his spine, but he knew better than to think it wasn't aimed at him.

He knelt. First stiffly, then…. Well, relaxed was almost certainly the wrong word, but perhaps _ settled… _into a mockery of the seiza posture Rumiko had taught him. Tried to teach him, at any rate. Part of their not-quite-a-date to a traditional tea house last time he was in Japan.

“Don’t move.” It was more warning than reminder. As if he could forget. A part of him, that part that retained a modicum of self-preservation, was terrified. It was that bit which kept him stock-still, unable to so much as _ twitch. _

Another part of him was just tired.

Tired of all this bullshit.

Tired because tonight, he’d finally summoned the courage to _ call Obie. _And Obie had come.

And now…

_This. _What even was _this?_ A robbery?

_ “Winter’s securing Stane now, but Cap, we got a problem. You’re gonna wanna see this for yourself.” _The woman was speaking again.

So that made… three. Three people, for a ‘simple’ home invasion?

_“Bring Falcon.” _

Make that four. At least.

Four invaders. Obie’s house, on a huge plot of land that had made him feel safe. Far from civilization and anyone _ (Howard) _who might hurt him. A huge plot of land that might as well be an island, now.

_ If a gun discharges in the forest and nobody hears it, does it even make a sound? _

The lights flicked on.

Tony flinched instinctively, eyes not prepared for the abrupt adjustment. Then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to move, and he’d just disobeyed, and—

_ “Strike hard, strike fast, and let the fear of your wrath dissuade them from going against your orders twice.” _

Howard’s words, endorsed by his every action. Even Obie, for all that he sometimes disagreed with the methodology, never argued the _ principle. _

_She said not to move and you just— _

“Sorry. S-sorry I didn’t mean—” he cut himself off, horrified at his own runaway mouth. She hadn’t _ forbidden _speaking, exactly. But talking definitely required muscles. Probably a ton of them if it were anything like smiling and anyway, grovelling was almost always worse.

Grovelling was an admission of weakness.

_("Let a drop in the water and the sharks start to circle…")_

He bit his lip. Not quite cringing—

_ (“Survival of the fittest. Act like prey, be targeted like prey.”) _

—but tense. Trying to relax his muscles, because if she _ didn’t _opt to kill him (and, he supposed, even if she did) it wouldn’t help anything.

His eyes adjusted to the light. He could see the polished hardwood of the kitchen floor. The subtly-spackled cream of the walls. The decorative trim lining the outlines of the room.

Morbidly, an image of this small stretch of wall speckled with blood and brain matter flashed in his mind. He wanted to be sick.

_ Never watching a crime show again. _

Not that he’d watched many to begin with. He’d gone through a period where he watched such shows religiously. Granted, he’d been seven. In retrospect, far too young for such shows. Clearly, “parental guidance” hadn’t ever been particularly high on his parent’s priority last. He’d been lured in by the laboratory science aspects of the show. The luster had faded quickly when, in his fixation, he’d perhaps dove a bit too deeply into the real-world forensic sciences behind it all and discovered just how _ wrong _everything depicted in the show was.

_ Didn’t they know a _ thing _ about proper lab safety?! Where was the emergency eye wash, the shower, the fume hood— _

“Kid? I need you to look at me.” The man’s voice was close—too close. _ Fuck, _ had he zoned out? Admittedly, the blood rushing in his ear was a mite distracting. But dammit, brain, this is _ literally life or death, _do what the guys with the weapons tell you to!

He tried, but of course he was too close to the wall and his elbow hit and _ fuck, that was his funny bone, g-ddamit. _

“You can put your hands down.”

Shakily, Tony complied. He wrapped them around himself instead. A chill crept down his spine. Goose-flesh pimpled and he rubbed at it, shivering. Not so much from cold—though he definitely was—as it was the reminder of how _ exposed _he was right now.

Slowly, not wanting to give his companion a reason to shoot, right hand still painfully throbbing from the accidental, self-inflicted hit, he turned. Dark brown eyes met his own.

The man knelt beside him on one knee.

_ He wasn’t wearing a mask. _

There were goggles, red-lensed, but they were pushed up on his forehead. A dozen different identifying features, cataloged in a moment even as his brain remembered as the rare edict from popular culture that also happened to be fairly accurate.

_ “If you see their faces, they don’t plan on letting you go.” _

“Alright, good. Thank you. Do you have a name I should call you, assuming you don’t want to just be referred to as ‘kid’?”

The question was telling. If this wasn’t some sort of bizarre test, to see how docile and compliant he really was.

If they didn’t know who he was—if Obadiah truly was the target, or if this was somehow just some sort of robbery gone wrong…

_ (“Winter’s securing Stane.”) _

The Stark name had value. Not, admittedly, that he thought Howard would be particularly inclined to pay a ransom, but if it made them less likely to kill him…

“Tony,” he admittedly. He didn’t stutter this time, at least.

“Alright, Tony. Good to know.” _ (Like he was talking to a skittish colt.) _“Tony, I need you to follow my directions so we can all get through this, okay?”

_ Liar. _

Tony nodded.

“Okay. Tony, I need you to hold out your hands for me. Press your wrists together. Clench one hand into a fist. Wrap the other hand around it. In my hand—you can look—”

Tony’s eyes flicked down automatically, then snapped back upward just as quickly. Trying to read something, _ anything, _in the man’s placid expression and even gaze.

“—is a zip tie. I’m going to bind your hands together with it. This is only temporary. In order for us to be safe together, we need to know that you won’t do anything rash. Even if you don’t mean to, sometimes our bodies react in unexpected, unintended ways when stressed. This provides a bit of security for us, and a reminder for you. Can I touch you now?”

God, Tony _ hated _ this. He felt like a sheep led to the slaughter. Worse, felt like he was being made _ complicit _in it all.

_ Yes, you can touch me. Yes, you can tie me up. Yes, I’m a spineless, pathetic waste of space. What gave it away? _

But what choice did he have? There was still the woman at his back, poised to shoot if he tried anything and far enough from civilization that she had no reason to fear someone hearing the gunshot…

The man… Falcon... before him. The unseen ‘Cap’ and ‘Winter.’

_ As long as you’re alive, there’s still a chance. _

Tony nodded.

The man’s touch was surprisingly gentle when it finally came.

The tie _ snicked _as Falcon clicked the binding together. Tight enough to be secure; loose enough that Tony wouldn’t lose circulation. Tony’s arms hovered there, suspended in mid-air for a long moment, before he remembered himself and let them fall.

How pathetic was he, to find _his captor’s_ touch _comforting_ as the man _literally tied him up?_

Falcon started to speak again. Whatever he might have said was drowned out by the sudden, piercing scream from above their heads that was just as suddenly snuffed out.

_ Obadiah. _

Adrenaline flooded his system. Before he could think better of it, before he could remember to be afraid of the woman with her weapons and her commands and the too-close man with his, he was scrambling. Not far, not with nowhere to flee and no hope of standing.

But just as Falcon had warned, in that moment Tony’s brain wasn’t _ operating _ on that level of higher functioning. No, this was pure fight-or-flight instinct, and Tony was too battered and comparatively powerless to choose _ fight. _

Tony pressed himself into the corner between the small stretch of wall and the counter. The small lip of the counter wasn’t exactly a vibranium shield, but it felt better than nothing in that moment.

His knees were pressed up against his chest, awkwardly held against it by bound hands.

The rapid movement did no favors for the budding headache that had brought him upstairs in the first place. His vision blurred in a fit of dizzied vertigo. 

He got his first look at the other person in the room. Red hair with a distinctive blonde streak in a side braid. Gun—an S-71 handgun, ironically of Stark Industries make—slowly lowering as it became clear that Tony wasn’t, in fact, launching a suicidal maneuver. Or maybe it was a concession to her companion’s placating gesture.

_ Or maybe she’s just deciding where to best fire a warning shot, since you once again failed to follow _ simple directions _ in a catastrophic manner. _

A foot, maybe? Certainly the easiest target. Bonus in that it would severely hamper any future attempts at escape and/or attempted movements.

_ (“Strike hard, strike fast.”) _

Neither came any closer. Tony was grateful for that, at least. He was on a hair-trigger—

_ Bad word choice. _He shuddered.

He was even more tense and jittery than he’d been before, and Tony hadn’t exactly been relaxed to begin with.

Tony watched his captors and waited.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Part Three](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450/chapters/50320631)


	13. Adrenaline (Tony/T'Challa A/B/O Arranged Marriage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New bonds were ridiculously intense, both in popular culture and in Dr. Samberly’s understanding of Omegan physiology. Common knowledge cast the Omega as driven out of their mind with lust. Dr. Samberly called it a dissociative fugue-like state induced by the combination of intense stress encouraged by the bonding ceremony itself.
> 
> Effectively, both boiled down to a similar descriptor. It was Dr. Samberly’s interpretation that Tony clung to now. Because no matter how well-known and expected it might have been, the reality of effectively losing a chunk of time and memory was terrifying, especially of something so life-changing as—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: arranged marriage, assumed dub/non-con, power imbalance, A/B/O dynamics, medical inaccuracies, implied dystopia
> 
> A/B/O is a fascinating fandom trope...

For the fourteen years Edwin Jarvis was in Tony’s life before his passing, Tony never felt more free than when he was spending time with the elderly Omega. Though he would never admit it aloud, he often dreamed that Jarvis, rather than Howard, was his dad.

The spring before Tony left for Omega Finishing School, Jarvis permanently cemented his place in Tony’s heart.

He gave Tony a book and even before he fully grasped its contents it was Tony’s most prized possession. 

_ The Science of Subjugation _by Dr. Aloysius Samberly, M.D. & PhD..

Optimistic estimates put less than two hundred copies of the book remaining in existence. The thin, now well-worn paperback had been banned within weeks of its publication in 1959 and contraband versions of the book had been systematically hunted down ever since. 

On the inside cover was an inscription from Jarvis, read and re-read so often that it was long since memorized.

_ My Dear Anthony, _

_ The truth can be a dangerous and terrible thing. Knowledge is among the most powerful of weapons precisely because once it escapes into the world, it is impossible to fully extinguish. _

_ You must never let anyone know you possess this book, or the truths contained within. Keep it safe. Guard it. If necessary, destroy it long before you let those in power know you’ve so much as heard whispers of its existence. _

_ It has been a pleasure to watch you grow these past several years. Young as you are, you shine so so incredibly bright with potential. As you leave the shelter of home to face the trials of the broader world, I fear the world may do its best extinguish that spark. _

_ They will try to teach you shame. To convince you that to be Omega is to be inherently lesser. To mold you into their image of who you should be. To subsume your identity into what they claim to be your Omegan birthright. _

_ So long as you hide the truths contained within in your heart, they will never succeed. They cannot make you lesser because you are not and will never be. _

_ I never want you to lose your spark. I entrust this book with you in the hopes that you will ket it kindle your flame and fortify your spirit for the trials to come. _

_ I am and will always be in your corner. _

_ — Edwin Jarvis, May 29, 1996 _

He thought of Jarvis’s words now as his father’s light but firm touch at the small of his back signalled the start of this farce.

The book was safely ensconced within his dowry chest. It was as well-protected as he could make it in the circumstances; he’d built a slim secret compartment beneath the false bottom of the interior. 

The project occupied most of his time during his seclusion, customizing their dowry chest being one of the few acceptable activities for an Omega in Cloister. 

He doubted his own modifications would be seen as _ acceptable _ if anyone knew. What kind of shameful Omega would keep secrets from his Alpha, after all? What kind of Omega would have secrets to keep in the first place?

He’d painstakingly disassembled the chest. From the true bottom, he sliced off a thin board. Into the thick remainder, he carved and sanded away a divot just big enough to comfortably set the tome. 

Then he got to work on the false bottom.

Tony was no artist, but he compensated for that through time and the extensive use of rulers, protractors, and the mathematical skills his father had carefully looked the other way on when Tony was learning them.

At the end, he was left with a passable mosaic design. He four-color-theorem’d his way into systematically staining the majority of the pieces either one, two, or three shades darker.

Then he started putting it all back together. The hinge and corresponding tile depressed to access the book was installed first. Once it was working, the rest of the design was glued into place.

By the time Tony was finished, no amount of enthusiastic rattling or close inspection hinted at the compartment’s existence. Unless you both knew there was something to find and exactly which tile to press, there was no reason to suspect anything.

Tony masked the design’s functionality further by creating complementary, if admittedly simpler, patterns for the other faces on the chest’s interior.

By the time everything was finished, twenty-six days passed.

And now, here he was. Blind, deaf, and dumb. Soon to be led down the aisle like a pig to slaughter. His soon-to-be spouse and the rest of his life waited at the altar. 

Tony was dressed in a white tuxedo with a dark purple trim that, supposedly, was the exact shade of his soon-to-be husband’s outfit for the evening. Not, of course, that he could see that. Yet.

_ One foot in front of the other. _

Calm breaths through the nose. Take advantage of the minor assist from the soothing scent of the cologne his naturally sensitive nose was hyper-conscious of given the restrictions on his other senses.

He could hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, the beating of his own heart. 

_ (“Press your ear to the seashell, young Sir, and hear the ocean.”) _

Not even a faint echo of the music he knew was playing made it through the custom-fit wedding earpieces. His fath—_ Howard _ spared no expense for the occasion of his only child’s marriage.

Howard signalled him to stop, and—

_ Just like rehearsal. _

One step. Two. Three. Turn to face the groom. 

Howard’s hand rose to his shoulder. Tony gracefully sank to his knees. What might have been an attempt at a reassuring squeeze followed. It was gone as quickly as it'd come.

Tony was alone. An island, a lone figure cast adrift until—

His Alpha-to-be, Prince T’Challa of Wakanda, touched him for the first time. Three fingertips—index, middle, thumb—gently grasped his chin. Tony suppressed anything so unseemly as a reactionary flinch, but couldn’t quite hide what was surely visibly a shiver accompanying the goosebumps prickling beneath his clothing.

It wasn’t quite a dissociative state, but in that moment Tony was entirely malleable. More than ever, he was little more than a pliant bystander in his body’s movements. 

His Alpha raised Tony’s head.

They began their vows.

The earpieces were removed first.

_ “—that you may listen and heed my words and this Oath to you, as you shall in all manner of events.” _

The voice spoke with an unfamiliar African accent—Wakandan. The words were clear and precise. His Alpha’s rhythmic, smooth baritone was mesmerizing, enthralling after the nothingness of sensory deprivation. 

Beautiful even. Provided, of course, that Tony didn’t consider the vow’s actual content and meaning.

The gag—sorry, _ lower veil _—was removed next. Steady hands untied the knot at the nape of Tony’s neck, just above one of his more sensitive spots. The small shiver that resulted was both expected and impossible to repress. The hands drifted dangerously close to an outright show of dominance, the knot’s position leaving Tony a slightly firmer touch or a tiny drift downward away from an even more humiliating experience.

He chose to take it as a good sign that his Alpha didn’t go for the somewhat exhibitionist gesture.

_ Such high standards you’ve got there, Tony. _

_ “—that your tongue might express your Devotion in turn, words a precursor to deeds.” _

Tony swallowed. His voice remained even as he became an active participant in his wedding for the first time.

“I ask first for my hands, that they may please and serve you in this as in all manner of events.”

He raised his loosely-bound arms, and his Alpha began to unwind the intricately-woven knots. 

Then it was gone. The Alpha’s hands left his.

And then. And then—

“I ask next for my Sight, that I may have eyes only for you from this day forward.”

His Alpha’s hands enveloped Tony’s, guiding them upward to the blindfold shrouding his vision. Tony hoped the tremble in them was imagined or went unnoticed, but if not… surely his Alpha would not blame him?

They unclasped the fabric. Removed the blindfold and opened his eyes.

The relatively dim lighting of the cathedral was bright enough to blind him. 

His vision cleared.

Before him stood his Alpha. His husband. His bondmate. The Crown Prince of Wakanda: T’Challa of the Panther Tribe.

The first thing that struck Tony was the color of his eyes: a perfect match for the honduran mahoganies of his dowry chest. His gaze, solemn and firm without crossing over into imposing and stern, helped ground Tony in the moment as their eyes met for the first time. 

Tony wondered what his own expression said in that moment. If his eyes gave a clearer picture of his own emotions than Tony could himself articulate.

The moment caught up to him. Tony hastily looked away, eyes cast downward as they were meant to be.

At least the posture helped hide the unwelcome additions captured on his lashes.

His father stepped forward.

_ “I entrust in you this Omega, Anthony, and ask that you lead and guide him through this moment as in all moments yet to come.” _

The pure white glorified leash—_ sorry, _ sash—was unknotted at his shoulder. The final symbol of Tony’s precious _ purity _ lifted away. For all that he was still dressed in the underlying formal attire, Tony felt bereft in its absence. A leash, perhaps, but maybe really a protective barrier all along.

The priest wove the sash it loosely around Tony and T’Challa’s joined hands, Tony's left to his Alpha’s right.

_ “—To have and to hold—” _

_ “—To love and to cherish—” _

_ “—For better or worse—” _

_ “—Til Death do us part—” _

Finally, T’Challa helped him to his feet.

Tony angled his head. Bared his neck.

T’Challa leaned in, mouth hovering a hair’s breadth above Tony’s Bond gland, warm breath brushing against his skin, and—

His Alpha bit down.

Tony was T’Challa’s bound Omega in truth now. The rush of hormones induced by the half-formed bond flooded his system. The lone evidence of Tony’s weakness, a solitary tear, was mercifully hidden in the dark purple of his Alpha’s suit.

No further tears would escape. Not here. Not now.

The priest unwound the sash. T'Challa wrapped it around Tony's neck, preventing blood from the fresh wound from doing anything so unseemly as staining Tony's jacket. 

Bandage and collar and leash in one, white fabric sullied in service of his Alpha's claim.

_ (just like Tony) _

The priest’s words seemed impossibly distant. The parting benediction given—

_ “I now pronounce you Alpha and Omega, Bound Together and Soon Made One.” _

They kissed. T’Challa’s lips bore the metallic taint of blood.

Tony was almost thankful for the tidal wave of chemicals continuing to swell. They dulled the emotions. Still there but somehow… less important. Less immediate. A reprieve from all that fear. Doubt. Shame. Powerless rage. The humiliation and degradation engendered by the traditional ceremony.

All of it, still there, but… the gentle buzz of a bee, the hum of a butterflies wings for all that he took note of them now.

The wedding. The ritualistic reminder and explicit statement of his place in the world, in the social hierarchy: non-existent and beneath the feet of his Alpha. The Oaths and Vows, an explication of an Omega’s complete subservience to his Alpha.

The distancing gales of rational thought and emotion left an imprint of its own.

An Omega traded away to a nation and a culture as unknown as the man he was now bonded to. More commodity than person in that moment. Bodily autonomy sacrificed at the altar, now subject to the whims of his Alpha.

For better or worse, this was to be his life now.

+++

Tony woke up.

Reality reasserted itself around him as he gradually resurfaced from the fugue state of his post-bond Heat. Flashes of memory—an image here, a sound there—rose with him. It would be some time before they resolved into anything coherent enough to be sensical.

He remembered a flash of _ want, _ of desire so intense that it _ burned. _ Remembered a low, desperate keening and—

_ That’s enough of that. _

He compartmentalized the recent past, grounding himself firmly into the present moment.

Tony was enveloped in a warm, soft blanket. Curled up and nestled into an equally luxurious bed. The blanket—or rather, duvet—was a solid weight around him. Just dense enough to provide constant, comforting pressure and an instinctive sense of _safe_ and _secure_ to the part of his hind-brain that cared for such environmental cues.

The bed, unsurprisingly, was heavy with the scent of what he instinctively recognized as _his_ Alpha. The sense of ownership, of belonging, was an indicator that the newly formed bond has solidified into an enduring Bond, Capital B audible even in the privacy of Tony’s increasingly-lucid mind.

What Tony initially thought to be his marriage bed lacked the musky lingering scent of sex he expected.

_ Then again, perhaps that made sense. _

New bonds were ridiculously intense, both in popular culture and in Dr. Samberly’s understanding of Omegan physiology. Common knowledge cast the Omega as driven out of their mind with lust. Dr. Samberly called it a dissociative fugue-like state induced by the combination of intense stress encouraged by the bonding ceremony itself. That, plus the rapid-onset heat hormones flooding the Omega’s endocrinological system too quickly for their body to process normally.

Effectively, both boiled down to a similar descriptor despite the wildly divergent connotations. It was Dr. Samberly’s interpretation that Tony clung to now. Because no matter how well-known and expected it might have been, the _ reality _of effectively losing a chunk of time and memory was terrifying, especially of something so life-changing as— 

In any case, the clinical explanation and accompanying medical terminology made the gap just that little bit more bearable

Regardless, assuming his fugue-state-slash-heat lasted the normal 36-48 hours, and then presuming he’d slept through in part or in whole the trip here…

_ Well, plus one for (probably) not going for the post-Heat somnophilia. _

...Or at the very least, not going for it _ here, _Tony’s brain unhelpfully tacked on.

But, aside from the obvious existence of the Bond, Tony didn’t actually feel that much different than he normally felt after a natural heat. If anything, he felt slightly _ better _than he usually did.

_ Gold star for Bonding hormones, I guess. _

Well, _ better _ but for the unsettling gap in his memories.

_ Downgrade the star to bronze or even tin for that one. _

Tony expected to feel something...more...somehow. He was a fully-bonded Omega now. He’d lost his virginity. His _ swell, _ the crude slang for the tissue that gave way and contracted the first time an Omega was knotted. Tony didn’t know _ what _ he’d expected to feel, beyond the residual soreness typical of any heat, but… he’d expected to feel _ something _. Somehow. Some way.

Tony wasn’t certain if he should be relieved or concerned that his Alpha wasn’t beside him at the moment. Tentatively, he was settling on relieved. 

Gave him a bit of time to process before he had to face his Alpha for what, from _ Tony’s _ perspective at least, would be their first post-Bond interactions.

As much as a part of him might want to, Tony knew he couldn’t stay in bed forever.

He opened his eyes and began to untangle himself from the nest of blankets and pillows surrounding him. 

The room was dimly lit through curtains that, while not entirely opaque, kept the room somewhere around pre-dawn glow levels.

He went to them first, pulling back the first layer of the curtains to reveal a thinner, more translucent fabric. For a moment, the window beneath was tinted in a way reminiscent of shades. Even through the fabric Tony could see the way it responded to… what, Tony opening the curtains?... and lightened considerably as well.

That done, he could take in his surroundings a bit more clearly.

There was a small round table laden with food and drink between two comfortable-looking chairs. Tony’s stomach rumbled at the reminder that, oh yeah, food was a thing that exists and also hydration is something he should consider caring about.

He was tempted for a moment, but a closer inspection revealed no accompanying note of permission with the food. Maybe a test, maybe just standard “morning-after” behavior here to dine with your Omega…

Tony supposed he’d find out soon enough.

After a final, longing glance, he forced himself to step away and found his way into the en-suite bathroom.

_ Right. Time to “inspect the damage” or whatever. _

The lights came on without his input _ (motion sensors?) _and revealed a spacious bathroom that matched the understated luxury of the room it accompanied.

He braced himself for… whatever… and looked in the mirror.

All things considered, he was surprisingly okay.

A few bruises, none of which were in any way painful and some of which were _ definitely _already there before the wedding.

Then there was the bite. He turned his head, leaning in to properly inspect the mark for the first time. It was...surprisingly okay also. It looked like what he imagined the scarring formed after a couple weeks, not days, of healing should be.

He stared for a long moment before looking away. He could fully dive down the rabbit hole on the potential implications of that one a bit later.

_ Point for lack of roughness on his Alpha’s part, pending further rabbit hole considerations… _

...Yeah, he’s never been the best at _ not _thinking about something.

_ You’re okay, Tony. For now, in this moment, you are okay. _

With that cheery thought, he went through a version of his standard morning ablutions using a set of obviously-new and hopefully-Tony’s toiletries beside one of the two bathroom sinks.

The awful taste in his mouth went away, at least. Even if drinking some of the water from the tap served as a cue for his stomach to make its presence known.

Post-shower, there was an awkward moment where Tony realized he had no idea what he was meant to be wearing.

_ (or technically if he was meant to be wearing anything at all…) _

This, at least, was resolved by an outfit laid out on his newly-made bed. Which, ignoring the uncomfortable awareness that someone had entered the room while he was in the shower, at least settled that question for now.

Tony slipped on the colorfully patterned loose-fit pants and shirt and then—

_ What now? _

The food on the table and the closed door suggested he was still meant to stay in his room, but beyond that?

Tony studied the door. It lacked any sort of obvious lock. Still, he deliberately decided not to check if the door was or could be locked from the outside.

(He didn’t really want to know, because if it was... well, once he knew he couldn’t _ un-_know.)

Western Etiquette suggested he should sit or, preferably, kneel in wait of his Alpha, but…

If his Alpha was going to be the type to demand that level of obeisance, probably best he learned as soon as possible. 

Plus, Wakanda had been isolated for so long. Who knew how different the rules of Proper Omegan Behavior were? No sense making a fool of himself doing something he didn’t want to do anyway unnecessarily.

Tony was tired.

_ ...and _ definitely _ not making excuses. _

Hopefully, that same man with kind eyes and a gentle touch that left so few marks or bruises _(unless…)_ wasn’t the type to react with violence or serious anger if Tony guessed wrong. Even if he _was, _surely the whole newly-wed entirely-ignorant-of-your-culture thing would grant Tony some leniency.

His train of thought skirted dangerously close to the rabbit hole. He pushed himself into action, taking the opportunity to take in the room—his room? His Alpha’s room? Their, plural, room? —A bit more thoroughly now that he was clean, clothed, and feeling a lot more like himself.

Inevitably, he drifted towards the bookshelf first. The easy, spread-out arrangement of precisely arranged knick-knacks looked deliberate. Tony knew he probably shouldn’t touch any of it.

His resolve lasted about thirty seconds.

Honestly, his Alpha should be pleased he made it that long.

Tony picked up a palm-sized spring stone figure, an abstract carving of a kneeling angel with outstretched wings. Surprisingly hefty and smooth to the touch, the angel’s head was turned to the side. Teardrop shape eyelids closed in an expression that was either deep sadness or complete peace. He trailed a finger along one of the inset lines of motion of the wings.

The angel was probably meant to appear in the process of unfurling, but Tony could only see the reverse. Curling inward, wings taut with tension rather than stretching with contentment. Pressed into submission, a collapsing zig-zag and—

Tony wasn’t doing great at the whole not-thinking-about-it thing, was he?

He replaced the statue, eyes scanning over its neighbors—carved wooden masks, wire beaded panthers and decorative bowls, soapstone bookends and ebony figurines—before homing in on the most arresting aspect of the arrangement: the actual books.

Unsurprisingly, none were in English. Tony couldn’t quite tell if they were meant to be purely decorative, but before long he found himself settling in with a coffee-table style book from one of the lower shelves. It was comprised of full-spread photos accompanied by sidebar commentary and captions Tony desperately wished he could read.

But hey, at least he was starting to pick up on the language’s… alphabet. Probably. Perhaps. Maybe...

He sat cross-legged, book in his lap. He was completely absorbed in studying the details of the photography. While the book wasn’t explicitly about technology _ (probably)_, there was enough of it casually woven into nearly every scene to far exceed his expectations based on what little he knew about the small nation.

He was so absorbed, in fact, that he entirely missed T’Challa’s arrival and any attempts said Alpha might have made to get Tony’s attention.

Tony knew he could be...extremely focused, often to the exclusion of all else... when in the middle of something he found interesting and sufficiently engaging. He hadn’t meant for that to happen here—he _ really hadn’t. _ But as time passed without his Alpha’s appearance, especially once his mind latched onto the puzzle that was both the written Wakandan language _ and _the book’s implications regarding Wakandan culture and technological development…

Well. Tony really was his own worst enemy. Case in point: his reaction when he felt an unexpected, gentle touch on his shoulder.

He flinched backwards. Tried to abort the movement partway. Remembered too late the shelf at his back and the pristine—and damningly open—book in his lap.

A snap decision led Tony to flip the book closed rather than properly catch himself, but he was saved from actual injury or from hitting anything by a firm hand that stalled his ridiculous flailing.

Wide-eyed, he looked up and into the face of (who else but?) his Alpha. Crouched before him, arm outstretched and… and... pinning Tony in place.

_ Well. So much for playing it safe... _he thought ruefully.

“Ummm. Hi?” Tony said, hating the way the words came out more a question or breathless plea than something more dignified.

His Alpha looked… amused_ (maybe?) _ rather than angry, but he still braced himself for T’Challa’s response.

“Apologies for startling you. I tried to get your attention in other ways, but you failed to respond.”

Tony heard the gentle rebuke in the words and said—

“Yeah, uh, sorry, I didn’t. I mean. I was. Anyway…” He fell silent before the babbling could get out of hand, took a steadying breath, and finished—

“Sorry, Alpha.” And though his current position wasn’t particularly conducive to more formal gestures of submission, Tony did his best. He lowered his eyes and dipped his head into a fractional bow.

“It is no trouble, Anthony. Perhaps you might indulge me and join me at the table for food?”

Tony’s stomach helpfully contributed its two cents to the discussion—not that Tony disagreed with the sentiment—and allowed himself to be helped to his feet by his Alpha.

He hesitated at the table. Bonded Omegas ate on their knees directly from the hands of their Alphas; Tony went to enough dinner parties over the years to really drive _ that _ message home. Now the moment had come where _he_ was the Bonded Omega.

And…

_ Fuck it's just a chair. _

_ Knees are gonna kill me if I don’t at least get a kneeling pad or something. _

_ What if that’s something I have to earn here? _

_ What if it’s something I can’t earn at all? _

With T’Challa _right there,_ Tony found it far more difficult to stop the anxious thoughts from making themselves known.

He was still gathering the resolve to sink downward when his husband spoke.

“You can stand and eat if you so desire, but I imagine the chair is a bit more comfortable.”

Tony took the kindly-worded command for what it was and hurriedly sat down.

"You slept rather late," T'Challa noted after the moment stretched too long between them.

Tony tensed.

_ Was that a criticism? Rebuke? _

_ A taunt? "Silly little pet omega, exhausted by his new alpha's prowess." _

He'd had a lifetime to learn his father and Obie's tics. Years to learn to read Rogers.

But he knew nothing of his Bonded Mate. Not really. Couldn't even begin to guess the path across the minefield, was doomed to make a misstep somewhere and then— 

And then.

_ It's fine. _

_ Not like you have Zero Rights as the omega of the Crown Prince of some random nation where you don't speak the language, know nothing of local customs, and have little hope of blending in enough to escape or find a sympathetic ear if your worst fears are confirmed. _

_ ("Don't worry kiddo. I won't let your dad sign anything that requires omega circumcision.") _

_ Thanks, Obie. It’s _ super _ reassuring to know his father was apparently a-OK with his son's genitals being mutilated if it gave Howard more bargaining power. Not to mention the implication that such a request might be _ made _ by his future Alpha to begin with… _

_ (At least Obie was in his corner.) _

"Probably the jetlag," Tony said unthinkingly, without even the hint of an apologetic lilt to soften the words.

_ ("If sarcasm was an indication of potential—") _

"The time difference is substantial."

The even tone was just as, if not more, unsettling than anger would have been to Tony's fraying nerves.

Perhaps sensing that, or maybe just to toy with his Omega further, T'Challa lifted the pitcher on the table and nodded towards Tony's empty cup.

"Would you like some water?"

Tony's mind traced a dozen different conversational minefields potentially hidden within the otherwise innocuous question. He was glad he had the foresight to drink from the sink earlier.

Tony measured his next words carefully. There was a fine line between deference perceived as rebellious versus genuine, and Tony had a bad habit of not so much toeing as flying straight over the line into infuriating insolence.

“If my Alpha allows,” he demurred.

T’Challa stilled.

“If,” he said. There was a dangerous undercurrent to the word that left Tony on high alert.

He swallowed. He knew he’d misstepped, but he didn’t know _ where _ or _ how, _and he couldn’t—

The pitcher thudded back down onto the table.

“Anthony,” he began. 

_ Fuck I really hate that name. _

“I’m sorry!” Tony blurted.

His Alpha said nothing for a long moment. Tony risked a brief glance upward. He couldn’t read the man’s expression.

“What are you apologizing for?” his Alpha asked.

Tony swallowed.

_ Does he know? _

_ Shit. Of course he does. Tech like that, of course he’d want to keep eyes on his known to be troublesome Omega at all times… _

No need to kneel if he wasn’t to eat.

_ That water. A test? To see if he’d be honest. _

But if Tony was wrong. If he didn’t know, and this was about something else. He’d be inviting trouble onto himself.

_ Which was riskier? _

“I…” he said haltingly, “I… this morning. Earlier. When I first— I-might-have-drank-some-water-from-the-tap.”

More silence. It seemed to stretch into minutes or hours, but rationally Tony knew it was seconds at most. If even that.

“Anthony, please look at me,” his Alpha ordered.

Tony obeyed.

T’Challa looked… pained? Disappointed? _ Displeased? _

_ What would the consequences be for this? _

_ (days without water, until he was parched and half-delirious with thirst, so long he lacked even the capacity to beg) _

_ (Head dunked in the toilet. Mouth treated as a urinal. Made to drink until he pissed himself.) _

_ (He remembered the threats from his more willful moments at finishing school. Remembered his Instructor's sneers, warning him that his _real_ Alpha wouldn’t be bound by institutional by-laws and the limits defined by Tony’s Paternal Alpha.) _

“Anthony.”

“Tony.” The correction slipped out without his conscious permission.

“Tony,” his Alpha allowed. “I think you may have some misconceptions regarding Wakandan cultural norms.”

_ Here it comes. _

_ Just give me a chance, _ he silently pleaded. _ Tell me what you want, at least give me the opportunity to obey before you… before. _

+++

_ Before _

+++

T’Challa looked up from the handful of provided files. He'd scarcely glanced at the cover page of the first one.

T’Chaka sighed at the look T’Challa was giving his father, but began to explain nonetheless.

“Our War Dogs have always been exclusively Betas. Their priority was never Alpha-Omega relations abroad. Occasionally we’ve received reports, but until the Dora were sent in to observe, we had no reason to look into the matter further.”

“I cannot see him, nor he I, before the bonding?”

“They refer to the bite and consummation that follows as the bonding, rather than they ceremony itself, which they call a wedding. But no. We are trying to respect their traditions.”

“And what of ours?!”

An arranged bonding for an Alpha King was not uncommon; his parents first bonded after a long courtship initiated by their respective families, for example. Keywords there being “lengthy courtship.” Not “total strangers bonding on first meeting.”

“Nakia strongly suggested we defer to their ways in this. Not just for bargaining power, but because she believes our ways are likely to... distress...an Omega raised in their culture. Aside from being needlessly cruel, it’d prove a poor start to your relationship. Maybe one day you might consider a Vow Renewal here, but for now it’s off the table. It will not affect your eligibility to assume the Black Panther mantle.”

T’Challa looked perturbed but set aside the topic for now.

“One of these files is a good deal thicker, father. Is this—” He opened the file. “—Anthony Edward Stark perhaps your preferred choice?”

“Yes,” T’Chaka said, “the others are back-ups if you find you cannot stand Mr. Stark, but politically and personally I believe him to be the best match.”

“Very well. My preference, then, is for Anthony Stark.”

“...You choose this despite knowing nothing about him beyond his name and my opinion.”

“Then we shall start this marriage on an equal footing in at least one regard. Baba, I want what’s best for Wakanda. If you and Nakia agree on Anthony, then I have no doubt that it is the wisest course.”

Five days following his… engagement... T’Challa found himself unceremoniously herded onto a couch by his twelve-year-old sister for a night of “developing a broader understanding of [his] betrothed’s culture”... a.k.a. Movie Night.

Shuri had acquired a copy of what she told him was a well-known American romantic comedy featuring several “authentic” examples of Omegan bonding ceremonies. Seventeen Dresses’ climatic wedding, according to Shuri, was billed by the global internet as “one of the greatest wedding scenes of all time.”

T’Challa was dubious, but he settled in to watch willingly enough. His understanding of international bonding traditions was minimal at best. He had a vague notion that they were far more divergent from Beta weddings than their Wakandan analogues, but until recently he’d never had much cause to care beyond that.

Pop culture seemed like a relaxed enough way to ease into the subject.

Two hours later, as the end credits began to roll, T’Challa was far less confident.

The movie’s premise had been simple enough. The main character was a woman who for whatever reason has found herself involved in an unusually large number of bonding ceremonies over the course of several years. A perennial member of the Honor Guard—the wedding party.

Traditionally comprised primarily of women due to their lack of a secondary gender, the name came from their origins in medieval Europe. Back then, the small group of three to five women stood “guard” over the newlywed couple before and during the bonding ceremony and subsequent consummation, when the couple was at their most vulnerable. 

Prior to the ceremony, they verified the Omega’s purity and watched over both Alpha and Omega as they got ready for their wedding. Following it, they stood witness to the consummate knotting and protected the couple for the remainder of the intense post-bond Heat that followed.

In modern times, the role evolved but the name remained. In its modern incarnation, the Honor Guard didn’t perform virginity tests, nor did their involvement persist beyond the wedding itself—there would be no voyeurism at T’Challa’s bonding night, thank Bast.

That didn’t make the Honor Guard—or, frankly, the entirety of the typical “bonding” experience as interpreted by Westerners—any less horrifying. It was made no less so by the way the entire event was romanticized.

It started before the wedding, when the bride-to-be was _ encouraged _ to visit a doctor for a check-up that _just so happened_ to include a check verifying that the Omega was, if not a virgin, at the very least had never been knotted. Ostensibly, this was for health reasons. A “broken” Omega could complicate the bonding process, if not eliminate the Omega’s ability to bond entirely.

Ostensibly, because the claim was at best half-true. True only in that a previously bonded—_bonded,_ not _knotted_—Omega might experience minor negative effects in during their few heats following their second bonding. It took time for their endocrinological systems to shift to balance out the pheromones of their new Alpha in lieu of the old. Nothing fatal or permanently crippling, though. At worst, it was comparatively equivalent to particularly unpleasant morning sickness or menstrual cramps.

In the film, this was demonstrated in scenes involving the Omega half of the “main” bonding featured in the film. The Omega, portrayed unsympathetically as an unlikable shrew and simpering gold-digger, was the antagonist of the narrative.

The main character was a childhood friend of the Alpha-to-be. They had drifted apart over the years, but it quickly became obvious as the movie progressed that the duo were madly in love and equally unwilling to admit it. The Alpha’s parents were “conservative”—to them it was unthinkable that any Alpha would turn down an Omega bond for the “lesser” bonds of beta marriage.

Nevermind, of course, that most couplings—including their own—involved a beta.

After far too much mutual pining, the movie reached the aforementioned “famous” bonding ceremony.

Everything up to the moment they’re meant to bond was covered in explicit detail, frequently cutting to the various parties’ perspectives.

Except, of course, the Omega’s.

The Omega, herded like chattel down the aisle in a garishly orange-trimmed bespoke suit, deposited on his knees before the conflicted Alpha while the tragically stoic heroine watched from the sidelines.

The Alpha freed the ears and voice of the Omega he was to wed before The Moment happened.

The Moment, where triumphant music swelled and the Alpha decided to follow his heart. The Moment, where he turned to his true love and professed his feelings. The Moment, when they kissed in front of the assembled guests and everyone celebrated—except, of course, the outraged parents and the kneeling Omega.

The Moment, when the Omega’s indignant shrieks were cut off with a quip from the heroine. She proceeded to muffle any further outcry by shoving the sash meant to be presented to the Alpha down the unpleasant Omega’s throat, much to the thinly-veiled or blatant amusement of onlookers.

The Moment, where the Officiant regrouped and married the beaming couple and they lived happily-ever-after. The moment where the Omega was left to his comeuppance off-screen via a single, off-hand comment during a voiceover in the After-the-End end scene.

Was that what a dystopia looked like to its privileged majority?

The entirety of the scrolling end credits rolled before either spoke.

“...Anthony is the luckiest Omega outside Wakanda,” Shuri said. She rolled her eyes at T’Challa blank responding look.

“Because, brother, he’s going to be one of _us_ now. And if you ever treat him even a tenth that poorly, Mama would kill you. Assuming the Dora didn’t get there first.”

“I would never!”

“‘Course not. But watching your flailing attempts turn some broken white boy into a future Right Hand will be just as amusing, I bet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet. Also the first to merit a slash rather than ampersand pair. So that's exciting.


	14. Tear-Stained (Genie Tony Stark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten Rings, for the ten links of the chains that bound. Six to control: Mind and magic, body and soul, word and deed. Six chains. Two at his wrists. Two at his ankles. Two, twinned together in a rope braid, at his neck. One to entrap: the chain that bound him to the lamp. And three to his Master, to whomever held the lamp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: slavery, extended captivity and isolation, implied/referenced torture and non-con, loneliness, betrayal, angst
> 
> ...Not actually as dark as that list makes it seem. There's a Hopeful Ending to this one, promise!

Once upon a time, in the days when human civilization was still in its cradle, a boy was born. His name, like the village he lived in and the language he spoke, are long since forgotten to history. 

He was a clever child, an intelligent youth, and a brilliant adult. Brown hair perpetually toeing the line of unruly, brown eyes always bright with curiosity. They called him gods-blessed. Called his inventions magic. And though this was a time where magic still roamed the Earth freely, the only ‘magic’ to be found in this inventor was that of his imagination.

He was the envy of all. Leader of his tribe. Tall for his time, confident, and charismatic. A man who could--and frequently did--have any person he so desired, man or woman, eagerly in his bed. He led his tribe through prosperous season after season. His designs and innovations protected the village from man and beast alike. His insights in crop-farming increased yields and allowed for increased trade.

He had everything, until he had nothing.

He was the envy of all. Until he was the envy of none.

For he was betrayed. Betrayed by a beloved elder, one he’d considered a truer father than his sire.

_ (“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.”) _

Taken. Cursed.

Enslaved by the Ten Rings and imprisoned within a lamp.

Ten Rings, for the ten links of the chains that bound. Six to control: Mind and magic, body and soul, word and deed. Six chains. Two at his wrists. Two at his ankles. Two, twinned together in a rope braid, at his neck. One to entrap: the chain that bound him to the lamp. And three to his Master, to whomever held the lamp.

Three wishes. No greater, no fewer. No take-backs or repeats.

Every curse has a release, but in time the genie would learn better than to hope.

It started with the Ten Rings, the self-same cult of mages that sought only power. Control. He was stolen by a man--a fellow prisoner that lacked the inherent magical potential to be enslaved as a genie. Yinsen.

His first wish was a way to destroy the Ten Rings’ camp. His second wish, when he was grievously wounded part-way through the battle, was that the Ten Rings be  _ utterly annihilated. _

Yinsen died before he could make a third. 

The Ten Rings did not survive the genie’s vengeance.

For a long time thereafter, he would be known as  _ Enlil-zi-shagal.  _ Cursed of the Lord-Ghost Enlil. That was not his name; even then he hated it.

Eventually, his lamp was found. It was then that the Betrayer was revealed, that his role in the genie’s curse was first known to the genie.

The Betrayer used his wishes to elevate himself and denigrate the genie. When he’d had his fill, he sold the lamp to the highest bidder.

The genie became a family heirloom. Generation to generation. Some cruel, some kind. Some indifferent. Most would use all three wishes eventually, but some used two and saved the last for a perfect opportunity that never came.

Most of the time, the genie was left forgotten in his lamp. It was a pseudo-stasis; he both was and was not aware of the ebb and flow of time. He could sense its passage, felt it keenly at times, but it did not drive him to madness as it might have a human. Rare blessing, or further torment, of the curse than bound him.

It was the loneliness more than the occasional cruelties that led to the tear-stains left to dry on his face. They were always carefully cleared before he was summoned.

Thousands of years would pass before he settled in a proper name of his own. Until that time came, he was subject to the whims of his Master’s.

Then, the genie was stolen for the second time. A family servant, that promised the genie his freedom in exchange for faithful service. The servant’s name translated to  _ Sunset.  _ She was kind, and like the sunset she was beautiful.

The genie thought he loved her. Thought she loved him in turn.

Freedom never came.

It was the second great betrayal. The genie swore he would not be so easily fooled thrice. Knew better than to ask for or accept the empty promises of a Master’s words.

Out of spite or fear for her own safety should another control the lamp while she yet lived, Sunset hid the lamp away. The genie would not see the sun for many years. Maybe, at least, enough time would have passed that the sunset no longer evoked strong, bitter memories.

Eventually, another found the lamp and the cycle began anew.

The genie found himself in Egypt. He elevated Pharoah to Living God. Became the prized jewel at the heart of the Egyptian Empire. Generations of this until one Pharoah grew especially attached to her brown-eyed pet genie. Tony spent most of the woman’s life, from the moment she ascended the throne at Seventeen to the moment of her death at forty-nine, outside of the lamp. A great deal of it passed warming the Pharaoh's bed.

It was the first time he was used that way, but it would not be the last.

When she died, the genie’s lamp was buried with her. And so he remained, in that peculiar state of almost-stasis, until at the dawn of the Common Era, her tomb was looted. He was found by a Macedonian raider. And so again, he passed from hand to hand between the gang of thieves and marauders. He helped them discover lost tombs and hidden treasure troves. For those not wise enough to guard their words, he led to misery and death and the cursed tombs of forgotten sorcerer-Pharaohs.

To Alexander the Great, and then to Rome. Here, he lived as the prized courtesan of Senator and Emperor alike. Here, he was given a name that would stick--Anthony--and from it, a name that he chose.

_ Tony. _

And so passed several hundred years. It was not a good life, but neither was it a bad one.

Tony knew well how to please his Masters and lovers alike. He was a master manipulator born of necessity. Though he occasionally misstepped, his mistakes were rare. He hated the lamp more than he hated a life of slavery. And better the gilded cage than chains and whips.

If this was to be his eternity, he did not desire to suffer. Sometimes, he could even fool himself into believing he loved his Masters in turn.

Then came the Visigoths, and the sack of Rome.

For the first time in a long time, Tony was captive of an unfamiliar culture. For the first time in a long time, his Romanesque appearance marked him plainly as Other. The magic of the lamp enabled him to understand the words of his captors, but what did that matter if they would not let him speak? What did that matter if he did not know the right words to say?

The Visigoths thought him Roman nobility, and treated him accordingly.

His time within the camps of the Visigoths would be one of the few periods where he would long for the safety and seclusion of the lamp.

It was a mercy that would be a long time in coming.

He was passed from camp to camp, this Roman Noble who could not die and would perform miracles on command. An open secret amongst Chieftain and warrior alike.

Then came Charlemagne, and the rolling tide of Christianity. What might have been a rescue or a reprieve was anything but, for the Christian had no tolerance for the arcane.

They tried to destroy the lamp. They tried to destroy Tony. For surely he was a demon, unholy agent of Evil and proof of the profane.

Tony retained only the vague notion that he had once been human. But he’d been Other for so long, now. Djinn or demon or genie, what did the exact nomenclature matter? The end result was the same.

When he proved indestructible by conventional means, they cast him into the sea.

And there he remained. Adrift, subject to the whims of the current, the ebbs and flows of the tides.

Until one day, his lamp washed ashore.

In a borough of a city in a nation on continent unknown to Man when last he’d seen beyond the confines of the lamp.

Until one day, a fourteen-year-old boy in Queens found his lamp and made to polish it with his sleeve.

His name was Peter Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit different than my typical writing style, curious to know your thoughts. <3


	15. Scars (Tony Stark Age Regression*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intelligent brown eyes snapped open and instantly confirmed that no, he was not where he ought to be at all.
> 
> Kidnapping. Right. He was Anthony Edward Stark. Nine years old, and smarter than people thrice his age. He'd get through this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: body horror, assumed kidnapping, non-consensual body modification, memory loss, medical inaccuracies, misunderstandings
> 
> Actually posted part of this before on my rarely-seen [tumblr](https://maedlinwrites.tumblr.com/), but I added some additional content for this version. <3

Tony blinked slowly into awareness. Something felt… wrong, and it didn't take long to figure out why. He wasn't where he should be. Or at least, not where he last remembered being.

The air smelled wrong, for one. The bed he was lying on, the blanket he was resting on… all of it felt painfully, horribly wrong. Not literally, perhaps. The blankets were soft. The bed was arguably more comfortable than the one he was used to sleeping on in his dorm room.

But the mere fact that it was different was enough of a warning for Tony.

Part of him didn't want to know. Didn't want to open his eyes and confirm what he expected.

But he wasn't some scared little kid anymore. Or at least, not in the same way. Fear, after all, was a natural, reasonable, and rational response to danger. He just knew better than to let it rule him now. Knew better than to think tears or panic could help solve anything.

Intelligent brown eyes snapped open and instantly confirmed that no, he was not where he ought to be at all.

Kidnapping, probably. Not immediately obvious who, but if the loud voices outside his door continued escalating volume was any indication, he'd soon find out.

Right. He was Anthony Edward Stark. Nine years old, and smarter than people thrice his age. He'd get through this.

_ He’d been kidnapped once before... _

Scarcely three years old, too curious for his own good, slipped his nanny’s supervision at just the wrong moment…

Too young to properly remember anything, though he had flashes of small details or emotion that could just have easily been nightmares based off the event as anything...

He didn’t remember a Before any more than he remembered the event itself, not really. But he’d been told that once, his mother had not been nearly so distant and lost in her own mind. That once, his father had… well. He fantasized sometimes that he father had once, if not loved, at least  _ liked  _ him. Before he proved himself a liability. A poor investment that his father could never fully divest.

(He did remember, all too well, the day not long after his seventh birthday, that he’d been informed by Jarvis he would begin at Idyllwild Academy in July. A year-round boarding school. A week for Thanksgiving, three for the autumn and the winter holidays respectively. Two for Spring. The only complete closure, a five week closure bridging June and July.)

(That first year, he’d come home for every holiday.)

(Last year, he’d only left for Thanksgiving and Christmas.)

(This year, he’d skipped Thanksgiving and only left for Christmas.)

(Not that anyone, except for Jarvis and Ana, really seemed pleased by his presence.)

_ (How long until they stopped caring too?) _

He tried to remember what he’d been doing before this. His last memories before this.

The memories felt fuzzy, distant somehow, but…

He remembered a normal day of coursework. It was… early May? He’d gotten into a fight with Ty, his roommate, over… Tony’s arrogance?... that morning. He’d shown up late to class in a wrinkled uniform because of it.

Mr. Dowan had been unhappy, lecturing him in front of the class about “responsibility” and “laziness”. Told him, “it doesn’t matter how smart you are, Mr. Stark, if you can’t even be bothered to behave and dress appropriately.”

Tony had been humiliated. Indignant. But he hadn’t bothered to argue. Arguing against authority never helped him before, and he hardly expected that to change now.

And then… what?

A normal day? Lunch, dinner, a trip outdoors or to the machine shop or the library? Returning to his room at the end of the day?

He… couldn’t say for sure.

Which didn’t bode well. He’d seen in a movie, once, that people could repress especially-traumatic events from their minds entirely sometimes. He’d researched it later, and it turned out to be a real-life, documented phenomenon.

If Tony was somewhere he didn’t belong, and was obviously missing at least some amount of time…

Well.

His heart pounded thunderously in his chest.

Except… it felt  _ wrong _ .

He looked down.

He was wearing an oversized, dark grayed T-shirt. Ill-fitting, equally misfitting boxer shorts. 

But… that wasn’t what captured his attention.

A blue glow shone through the shirt.

_ Oh god— _

His hands scrabbled at the shirt, revealing the device beneath.

_ Oh-god-oh-god-oh-god— _

A circular, electric-blue device. Implanted in his chest.  _ In his body. _

_ No-no-no-no-no— _

Distantly, a part of him recognized that he was panicking.

_ Oh god was it a bomb he didn’t want to die he didn’t have this when he last remembered oh god what had these people done to him how was he even still alive where had his sternum gone the thing was huge and he could feel, now that he was paying attention, just how deep it went into him oh god— _

He couldn’t—

_ Get it out get it out get it out— _

He didn’t realize he was tearing at his chest, at the  _ thing _ they’d put in him, until he felt hands grabbing him, forcing his own away from his chest. He thrashed, kicking and screaming and  _ fighting  _ for all that he was worth, fighting like his life depended on it because  _ it did— _

It was getting harder and harder to breathe the more he fought. Spots in his vision, unable to hear anything but the ringing in his ears and an indecipherable stream of voices blending into his own terror—

He was getting light-headed from want of oxygen, his heart was going to beat from his chest he was  _ going to die— _

Anthony Edward Stark, age nine, lost consciousness.

The resultant silence was, in its own way, deafening.

Colonel James Rhodes looked down at the suddenly-limp figure beneath him. Pepper stood a few feet away, eyes wide with horror and filled with tears. 

_ Well shit,  _ Jim thought.  _ Now what? _

+++

It seemed impossible that a body that small could contain an arc reactor that large. The miniaturized arc reactor was the same size as ever, but now forced to find space in a chest less than half the size.

The kid was still pinned beneath him. Pinned by Jim’s frantic attempts to keep the kid from clawing his own heart out. His heart was still racing from the rush of fear-based adrenaline. He let go of the kid’s hand like he’d been stung. Pushed himself off Tony’s ludicrously expensive King bed and took a few steps back, his hands raised in a meaningless, placating gesture towards the now-unconscious preteen.

“Tony’s surgery was scheduled for two weeks from now, right?” Jim asked. He turned to Pepper. She stared uncomprehendingly at him. She and Tony had been through a lot recently. The Mandarin. Extremis. Tony presumed dead, Pepper kidnapped. This, not even six months since her significant flew a nuclear weapon through an alien portal and nearly died in the process.

Finding a panicking ten-year-old version of said man in their shared bed had to be a bit of a shock. Hell,  _ Jim  _ was in shock, and he had the advantage of military training and not regularly  _ sleeping  _ with the adult version of said child going for him.

Still, Pepper was nothing if not adaptable. She blinked a few times. Her face cleared.

“Yes. Dr. Cho’s flying in tomorrow, to start going over everything with Tony in person.”

“How soon can she be here?” Jim asked

“Tony sent the Stark Jet for her. The plan was an overnight flight. Give her a few days to adjust for jet lag and see the labs and surgical suite before they got down to business. Jet’s already there, theoretically she could be here inside ten hours.”

“What about Dr. Banner?”

“He left after I was confirmed cured. Off the grid again; Tony seemed to think he’d done something to scare Bruce off but was reluctant to share why. I didn’t want to push him, what with the surgery coming up,” Pepper said.

“His primary healthcare team?”

“Still in Malibu. We haven’t—well, they were going to fly out closer to the surgery, just in case. But well. They’re not pediatricians. They know more about the arc reactor than most, but…”

“Point. Okay, so the sooner we can get Dr. Cho here the better, but in the meantime… fuck, he’s so  _ tiny. _ ”

“I don’t know what he remembers, but I have Power of Attorney if he’s not in a position to consent. Or, I suppose, if his mind’s as young as he looks.”

“I’ll move him to the medical wing, then?” Jim offered.

“Yeah… yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Pepper said.

+++

  
  
  
  
  
  


+++

_ Elsewhere and Elsewhen _

On October 17, 2023, Tony gave his life to save the universe.

_ (Again.) _

This time, it stuck.

_ (Right?) _


	16. Pinned Down (A/B/O Warlord Steve/Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hulking figure filled the doorway. He was the burliest Alpha Tony had ever seen. On the man’s chest was an all-too-familiar celtic knot. A buzzing, staticky hum filled Tony's ears. He forgot how to breathe. This was it, then. His fated soul-bound.
> 
> (“The universe itself knows you were born for this.”)
> 
> And he was approaching Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: A/B/O dynamics, soulmates, implied/referenced non-con and physical abuse, gaslighting, off-screen war & violence, Steve being scary a.f., dub-con touching (situational), bondage, dehumanization, power imbalance, cultural differences, pretty much four thousand words of sensory porn without any actual sex
> 
> ...I swear the content warnings for every single chapter makes them sound about a million times darker than they are. Technically this one's an open ending, but very much meant to be hopeful/heavily implied Happily Ever After.

He was being punished for ‘reticent behavior’ again. Rumlow’s fault. Obie stopped by after the servant was finishing tending to Tony that morning to explain Tony’s ‘crimes’. He was apologetic, but ultimately unsympathetic. Obie hadn’t outright blamed Tony—he rarely did, and typically only when whatever he was in trouble for actively involved the man personally.

Tony stood by what he’d said.

_ The Avengers are going to be here in less than two days. Maybe we’d stand a better chance if you spent more time mounting _ defenses _ instead. _

_ Should _he have said it? No, almost certainly not. But for fuck’s sake, Rumlow was the Captain of the Guard. He ought to be able to think with more than his knot.

Besides, if it hadn’t been Rumlow and reticence, it would have been some other equally-inane crime. And even though Tony was the one bearing the brunt of it, he could recognize that everyone in the Keep was a bit on edge.

Tony’s brand of never-quite-submissive-enough behavior was barely tolerated on the best of days. If he were anyone else than the son of the late Lord Stark. If he didn’t have an unclaimed bond-mark. If Obie didn’t have a soft spot for him. If, if, if…

So here he was. Curled in a corner on what could generously be deemed a small blanket. Ass still on fire from the night before. Tired, aching, sore. Hungry. Blindfolded. Bound in a position designed for maximum exposure _ (humiliation) _and vulnerability.

_ Joke’s on Rumlow; Tony had no shame. _

_ (Or at least, made a very convincing front to that effect these days.) _

The protection ‘his’ corner offered was… dubious at best.

His sight might be obscured, but (un?)fortunately his hearing was as solid as ever. Judging by the sounds? Well, if the barbarians hadn’t breached the Lord’s private wing of the castle yet, they were certainly close.

He strained against the bonds again. For something, anything, that might give him enough leverage to… what?

Miraculously dislodge the blindfold maybe. At least that way he might see his fate coming.

The sounds of battle, of foreign roars and collapsed defenses, had reached the hallway on the other side of the wall he was pressed up against.

Then, the groan of wood and a shuddering crash. Wood splintered. The door to the Lord’s private chambers toppled to the ground with a reverberating _ thud. _Knocked clean off its hinges, by the sound of it.

The door to the room where Tony was stowed.

_ It’s fine, Tony. You’re only about to be raped, knotted and—if you’re lucky—dismembered by a barbarian horde, Tony. Nothing to worry your pretty little Omega head about. _

He was on high alert. His unhampered senses kicked into overdrive. He could smell the Alpha’s—

_ No. Worse. Alphas, plural. _

—bloodlust and rage. No doubt his own pheromones reeked of distress and fear.

_ Just in case the bondage didn’t paint a pathetic enough picture, _he supposed.

It was all Tony could do to stop the keening whine that tried to escape. Thanks, biology. Always helpful with the entirely-ineffectual instinctual attempts to soften an Alpha’s anger through displays of weakness and submission.

Tony rather thought it’d be a mite less… well, it might be better for him to be killed by mindless violence sooner rather than later.

A war party doesn’t get a name like _ The Avengers _ for a predilection toward restraint and mercy.

Whatever Tony was projecting, it managed to stall the Alphas for an impossibly long moment.

The heavy scent abated and began to lessen from ‘overpowering’ to just… ‘powerful.’ He could still hear the barely-audible sound of a set of approaching footsteps.

_ Fuck, and a Beta too? _

And a scentless one, at that. Even with their innate, comparatively weak pheromones emitting subtler cues, something so adrenaline-fueled as a battle ought to have registered _ somewhere _in their scent pattern.

_ Maybe a sociopath come to slit his throat. _

The movement stopped.

Tony was utterly still. Waiting. Tense. The Beta loomed overhead and—

Cool metal brushed against his forehead. Feather-light, it slipped under the leather strap that ran from the top of the blackout blindfold to the locked ring pressed against the nape of his neck. The pressure spiked and the leather creaked. Tony had just enough time to feel a jolt of fear before—

A scriss and… one, two, three snaps as three holding straps were cut.

His blindfold fell to the floor.

The room was poorly lit. The only light came from the hallway and the shuttered window. It was still bright enough that, after more than half a day of complete darkness, Tony’s eyes needed several seconds to adjust.

Someone opened the window. Another round of ferocious blinking, and Tony could finally make out the figure before him clearly.

The Beta was female, and she was clearly a warrior. She had braided blood-red hair with a single, thick blonde streak running through one of the strands. She looked… well, not _ gentle. _But definitely less murderous and/or battle-crazed than expected.

He stared, his brain needing a moment to catch up. Her mouth was moving… she was speaking. And looking at him. Talking to him in a continuous stream. He didn’t understand the language, but her cadence lacked any obvious hint of malice or… other negative emotions.

She didn’t touch him.

She had to have retreated a few steps back, even, from when she’d cut off the mask.

Tony understood why soon thereafter.

A hulking figure filled the doorway. He was the burliest Alpha Tony had ever seen and…

His eyes homed in on Tony’s torso.

And Tony’s locked on his.

On the man’s chest was an all-too-familiar celtic knot.

_ (“The universe itself knows you were born for this.”) _

Tony’s mind went blank. A buzzing, staticky hum filled his ears. He forgot how to breathe; his heart skipped a beat.

This was it, then. He… his… his fated bond-mate.

The one he was predestined to have a relationship with that was so overwhelmingly carnal in nature that even his _ goddamn soulmark _reflected it.

No wonder whatever truce Obie attempted failed. If Obie had been dumb enough to reveal Tony’s existence. Or even if he hadn’t, but he’d shown some reaction to the distinctive symbol on the man’s chest…

No Alpha would leave their Omega in the power of another. And considering Tony’s long-standing history of… intimate encounters… with Alphas that _ weren’t _the man before him...

Well. Bards sang songs and wars were fought and won over such a slight.

Absently, he noted the Beta backing away. At some point, the Alphas with her had left the room.

This Alpha, _ his _ Alpha, had the manner and bearing of a leader. He was _ The _Alpha of the Avengers warpack. 

And he was approaching Tony. 

Tony should look away, probably.

He’d never been particularly good at that.

Once the Beta left, they’d be alone. Just him and the Alpha.

He was so close now. He loomed overhead and—

Crouched down.

Even if Tony wasn’t so tightly bound, the Alpha’s sharp gaze would have left him pinned in place.

Well. Whatever happened, he supposed he was about to learn a lot about what the rest of his life was going to be like. However short or long said life might be. Now that the moment had come Tony wasn’t sure which eventuality—short or long—was in truth the option he preferred. 

The Alpha reached out a hand. His fingertips brushed against the black mark that dominated the center of Tony’s chest. The mark flared. It glowed an impossibly bright shade of blue that sparked like lightning. The color reflected in the Alpha’s eyes until, just as quickly, it was gone. The now-pigmented mark settled deep into Tony’s skin.

If he looked, Tony might be able to see it even given his current restricted position.

Tony couldn't bring himself to look away long enough to know. The Alpha’s enraptured gaze said that he was just as captivated by his Omega. By Tony.

The moment stretched, then broke. Tony inhaled sharply.

The noise twisted into something lewd and obscene courtesy the Omegan Bit wedged in Tony’s mouth. Rumlow had taken great pleasure in locking the device in place the night before, forcing Tony’s jaw into an extended stress position.

Tony’s pulse jackrabbited. Worse, he noted with no small amount of mortification, he could feel the signs of his own response to the mark’s activation. The arousal was perfectly normal. Expected. Natural, even. And yet…

The Alpha stilled. His hand slid upwards. His touch brushed against Tony’s lips. 

_ How many lives had that hand ended today? How many more would it take? _

Calloused fingers slipped into his mouth and—

Tony mewled.

_ (Just like the _ bitch _ he deluded himself into thinking he wasn’t.) _

Vaguely, Tony was aware of the Alpha’s voice speaking in a low thrum. He spoke as if to soothe a frightened animal.

_ And really, wasn’t that ultimately who—what—Tony was to him? _

He didn’t know the language. Wouldn’t have understood the words even if he _ wasn’t _hyperfocused on the hand reaching in to—to—

Tony felt the familiar pain of a scrape over half-healed wounds. And then—

The Omegan Bit was gone. It dangled in the Alpha’s grip and then was just as casually discarded.

Tony wanted to be grateful. He rolled and shifted his stiff jaw. Closed it. A relief. And really, Tony should be grateful. Would be grateful, maybe. 

If he wasn’t so goddamn scared.

He swallowed heavily.

“N-now what?” Tony rasped. He couldn’t bear the thickening silence. He’d never been good with silences. Never done well with nothing but his own mind and thoughts to distract him.

There was a _ reason _his current predicament—well, the bits pre-dating the Avenger’s arrival—was a go-to favorite used against Tony. As much as he hated to acknowledge it, it could be pretty damned effective. The longer it lasted the worse it got at the best of times.

This was not the best of times.

The Alpha’s face twitched.

_ Fuck. Was it Tony’s voice? Was he—had he really angered the man within _ seconds _ of grasping the barest slice of opportunity to do so? _

Just as quickly the look was gone. The unreadable expression was back.

The Alpha spoke again. He made a gesture that _ might _be interpreted as a request for permission. Or maybe a demand for submission. Or maybe—

_ Who the fuck even knew, really. _

Silence and ignorance. 

There were few things he found harder to cope with and _ wow _this Alpha was doing a bang-up job at checking all boxes right off the bat. Granted, Tony’s ignorance might not _ technically _be his fault. And thus far the Alpha hadn’t exactly been All Quiet on the Speaking Front either. But…

Tony nodded. It was more a flick of his eyes than anything. He desperately hoped he’d guessed right and made the right choice.

The Alpha leaned in again. Closer, not just one hand now but both and—and—

Began to untie him.

Tony hadn’t known it was physically possible, but the Alpha’s expression managed to grow even stonier as he worked at undoing the various knots and bindings.

It didn’t help that Tony’s body still seemed to be fully onboard with… whatever the Alpha was inclined to do. He _ hated _ it. _ Hated _ himself. _ Hated _ how his body responded, how his groin felt painfully tight. The way he hardened. The way it leaked just like his _ pathetic, desperate— _

Tony hated the way the Alpha’s scent inflamed in response. The potent mix of desire and something that smelled an awful lot like rage. Part of Tony remained free enough of self-loathing to remain terrified at whatever _ after _would come when his Alpha finished his current task.

His Alpha all but vibrated with the intensity of his emotions. Corded muscles flexed. His jaw clenched. Periodically, his Alpha would notice his own posture. Force himself to relax his jaw and smooth out the corners of his eyes.

Then Tony would manage to piss him off again and the cycle would begin anew.

_ Fuck. He wasn’t even _ doing _ anything. Or at least, he was trying not to. _ And maybe that was the problem somehow. But this was his _ soulmate. _ And sure, Tony never expected a happy ending, but perhaps there’d always remained a small spark. That faint but still glowing ember of hope that someday, things might be better. That somewhere out there, of all the men in the world—

Funny how sometimes awareness only comes through the finality of loss.

The Alpha’s methodical efforts reached his crotch.

Tony bit down on his lip with enough force to tear clean through. His mouth welled with blood and his Alpha looked up sharply. The hard gaze sent a fresh bolt of fear that fit right in with that miasmatic blend of pain and desire coursing through Tony’s system.

_ Message received. _

The Alpha’s hands left his body, taking the binding with him. Tony half-sobbed, out of relief or frustration he didn’t know.

He felt more exposed than ever.

_ Spread and wanton. _

_ A barbarian’s whore. _

_ Desperate enough to welcome it. _

The Alpha leaned in and inhaled deeply at Tony’s neck. He reached around Tony to—scooped an arm under his thigh so that—

He lifted Tony in a bridal carry and clambered to his feet.

Tucked him against his broad chest like Tony was something precious. Valued. Like he wasn’t—

Someone spoke. His Alpha snarled and turned. Tony cringed.

It was the Beta warrior again. She held a cloak.

The Alpha’s snarl faded. He still looked unhappy, but took the proffered item willingly enough. He glanced down at Tony consideringly. Took a few steps.

To Lord of the Keep’s bed.

_ (“—overwhelmingly carnal in nature—”) _

He bundled Tony into the cloak. Cocooned him in the fabric. Heat burned through Tony, but the cloak was more comfort than stifling. It felt… significant somehow. And maybe it was just a proprietary action. Maybe his Alpha was just guarding his new toy from hungry eyes excepting his own.

_ (But maybe not.) _

Tony focused on the feel of the fabric. The firm but non-bruising pressure of his Alpha’s grip as he picked Tony up again.

His Alpha’s heartbeat thumped steadily. Tony let the sound crowd out the cries and clangs of still-ongoing fighting. Let the heady musk of his Alpha overpower the stench of blood and death as he was carried through the slaughtering grounds the Keep had become.

Tony let himself go. There was nothing for him here. _ Nowhere _ was better than _ somewhere _ when that somewhere was the only place—the only home—he’d ever known being violently torn apart. His conscious mind seemed to decide that it’d dealt with _ more than enough stress for the day, thank you very much _and it wasn’t about to stick around for more trauma if it didn’t need to. 

Maybe by the time he came back to himself, the calamity caravan would have moved. Always greener pastures to torch and all that.

Time became a nebulous concept. Tony drifted in and out of awareness. Physically and psychologically worn down, Tony eventually drifted asleep in full. He’d spent all his energy paralyzed in that room and trying to remember how to breathe in the face of… His Alpha. His Alpha, the warlord and leader of the Avengers.

When Tony next came to he was nestled in the heart of a thick pile of fur and blankets. 

His Alpha was sprawled asleep and content beside him. Or more accurately, nearly astride him.

Tony could see his Alpha’s mark clearly. Pinned beneath the Alpha’s weight but not his gaze, Tony took the time to really study the mark. To try to tease out the ramifications of it all. The mark was still the black of the untouched. 

Before he could think better of it, Tony reached out.

The hand that _ wasn’t _currently pinned beneath two-hundred-some pounds of Alpha reached out shakily.

Tony touched the bondmark for the first time.

Blood-red light flared. The polar opposite of Tony’s blue and yet its perfect twin with that same glowing electric hue. 

Time slowed to a standstill.

Blue eyes snapped open. 

A familiar hand encircled Tony’s wrist.

His Alpha was awake.

+++

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Steve Rogers, leader of the elite Avengers warpack, knew the stories that were told in the South about them. About the ‘barbarian horde’ come down from the steppes of the Endless Plains to pillage and slaughter their way through the ‘Free’ States.

Admittedly, there was _ some _truth to the claim.

The slaughtering, however, was confined to Hydra’s agents. The pillaging to Hydra’s Keeps. For most city-states, those only nominally infected with Hydra’s rot, they took nothing more onerous than a tribute. Enough to supply their troops and fund the ongoing war effort. But they were not cruel nor did they take more than the towns could afford to give. They did not conquer and, where possible, they did not destroy.

Stane Isle was different. They were not ruled by Hydra, but the oligarchs that ruled the Isle were just as bad in their own twisted ways.

Worse, even. They had hurt _ his _ Omega. It left Steve with little room in his heart for _ mercy _ and _ restraint. _The sack of Lord Stane’s Keep was as swift and brutal as any attack on a Hydra stronghold.

The night before, Stane arrived with his envoy to negotiate by torchlight. Whatever Stane's intentions might have been when he set out, they changed when he noted Steve’s proudly-bared black mark. Nat must have had her suspicions even then, but—

An Omega war-prize. A tribute of flesh rather than iron or gold. Even if Steve _ was _the type to allow selfish physical desire to overcome the needs of his pack and their cause, it was a tribute Steve was ill-inclined to accept. Not when his soulbound was still out there, waiting to be found. Not when Hydra was still out there, an implicit threat to said yet-to-be-found partner.

And if it wasn’t enough that Stane Isle treated its Omega sons so poorly. If it weren’t enough that a so-called ‘Free’ State bartered one of its people as a commodity.

If that hadn’t been due cause enough, they had the _ gall _to treat the Captain’s—his—soulbound in such a manner. 

_ Mine, _ his instincts roared as he drank in the sight of his soulmark—_his soulbound, his Omega—_for the first time.

_ Wrong, _ his instincts screamed as he took in his Omega’s condition. The lingering scent of Other not quite obscured by the Omega’s panicked, distressed pheromones. The way he’d been arranged and posed in an unnatural position, then unceremoniously shoved into a corner like discarded furniture. His wide eyes—

_Brown, his soulbound’s eyes were brown. Brown, like the caramelized glaze of a boortsog cookie. Brown, like the bark of a lonely spruce tree breaking the unending sameness of the plains._

—with pupils dilated by fear. The indents on his face imprinted by too-tight bands. His mouth held open and slightly ajar by a device that resembled a bit from a Southern-style horse’s tack. The faint stain of dried flecks of blood and spittle at the corners of his mouth. The bruised and exposed skin with an untold number of as-yet-unseen marks of mistreatment at the hands of Stane Isle.

And at the center of his chest, Steve’s mark.

“Widow? Ronin?” Steve ordered, voice low and dangerous, “Clear the Keep and _ burn it to the ground.” _

They obeyed. Steve went to his destined partner. The Omega’s eyes tracked his every movement.

Perhaps he should have known better, but in the moment—

Steve triggered the beautiful Triquetra soulmark. Before his eyes it blossomed and settled into a vibrant shade of blue unlike anything Steve had ever seen.

The draw of your mark, twin to the mark your soulbound left on your own flesh, was said to be irresistible. Steve understood it now. He could no more have stopped himself than he could have changed the course of the wind.

The urge was not one-way. The Omega strained against his bonds, unaware of his own instinctual efforts to reunite with that shared fragment of his soul fate had entrusted to Steve.

It was cruel to leave his Omega thus restrained for even a moment longer.

Several minutes later, Steve felt his Omega go limp in his arms before he had regained enough sensation in his limbs to complete their bond. After a moment of reflection, Steve decided to take the delay as a positive. Just the emotion, the _ intent, _from Steve’s touch had been enough to trigger the formation of a fledgling bond and send his Omega into the early stages of an intense pseudo-heat.

It gave them time. Time to finish the Avenger’s business here. Time to take his Omega back to their camp. Time to have him looked over by a trained healer’s eye, to wash away the sweat and grime of the day on both their bodies. To return to Steve’s tent. To tuck his Omega safely into a proper nest of heavy furs and soft blankets. Someplace his Omega could be safe. Could _feel_ safe and trust that he had nothing to fear from Steve or anyone else. Because Steve would be there now. Steve would protect him. He would help his partner, his _ soulbound, _understand just how much he was valued. Treasured.

They’d solidify their bond, Steve claiming his Omega and his Omega claiming him in turn, with all the care and tenderness that Steve had been waiting a lifetime to give.

And so he went.

Time passed and his Omega remained insensate. The longer this lasted, the more concerned Steve grew. Finally, he called on Stephen, the Avenger's primary healer. With the help of his assistant Christine, the Beta examined the heat-fevered Omega. 

It wasn’t the intensity of the new bond that had knocked the Omega flat on his back.

Or at least it wasn’t _ just _the bond.

Dehydration. Sleep deprivation. Deep-seated exhaustion from prolonged poor treatment. Open abrasions in his mouth from extended usage of devices like the one Steve had removed. Small mercies, Stephen said, that there was no infection. Likely courtesy regular salt-water treatments that left scars of their own.

Stephen’s stark warning.

_ “Whatever your relations look like from here, I strongly advise they not involve your knot for several weeks at a minimum. Bonding or even heat hormones aren’t going to offset the pain and physical damage that would accompany placing undue strain on still-healing injuries.” _

Steve had done his best not to snap at the Beta. Reminded himself that the calm recitations were born of professionalism not indifference.

That was nearly twenty-four hours ago.

Since then, Steve had spent as much time as he could in his tent with his Omega. He encouraged the smaller man to drink sips of water or swallow small bites of food during the occasional semi-lucid periods where the Omega was just aware enough to manage without choking.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

This wasn’t how Steve had pictured the first day with his soulbound would go. It was a different sort of intimacy, perhaps. He wished the circumstances of their meeting had been more ideal.

Steve wouldn’t trade this for the world.

Steve left Nat and Ronin to the… interrogation… of the captured Isle leadership, most notably Lord Stane and the man’s direct council.

It was probably for the best his Omega had such obvious need of Steve during that time. Steve didn’t trust his own ability to maintain enough restraint to keep the condemned men alive long enough to obtain any sort of useful information.

Best of all, he now knew the name attached to his Omega.

_ Tony. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say I was trying to write outside my comfort zones with this fic, yeah? So I guess I decided to go for all the dub-con prone tropes in one go. Soulmates, A/B/O, and skewed power dynamics ahoy!
> 
> Sidenote: Let's be honest here. This is the first time I've written Steve/Tony. (Unless you count that one gen Stony Minecraft drabble because puns.) For anyone even remotely familiar with sabrecmc@'s writing, you'll realize this chapter, and the underlying 'verse, is 100% her fault. :P


	17. "Stay With Me" (Beauty & the Beast Modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing that hit Steve in the rush of stale air was the smell. Dried sweat and sickness. Mildew and rot. 
> 
> What people meant when they said something “smelled like death.” He took an instinctive step back, turning away from the stench, then froze. Did a double take. Was that thing... alive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: serious amount of dehumanization, medical inaccuracies, prolonged captivity, dehydration/starvation, confined spaces, implied/referenced torture & slavery dynamic, unreliable narrator due to mistaken assumptions, general "holy shit what happened to tony?" vibes
> 
> Okay this is like, extra-super unbeta'd. It got a bit out of hand; I hope you appreciate how much effort went into dragging this one kicking and screaming out of pure, unadulterated angst territory.

They put a literal sock in his mouth, and a dirty one at that. It tasted worse than it smelled. Considering the rancid odor it emitted…

Tony spent a few unfortunate minutes gagging around fetid footwear before his acid reflux resigned itself to the situation.

Wouldn’t that have been a way to go. Choked on his own vomit in the back of a mildewed camper.

It took a moment to realize that the sound that had awoken him was the hum of nearby voices, muffled by the metal into something indecipherable.

Tony didn’t react.

There was no point.

The voices continued for some time, then faded. A door opened. Closed. The truck roared to life.

And drove away.

Time passed. Tony didn’t know how long it’d been. He knew the driver had stopped thrice now, without even bothering to check if his cargo still had a pulse.

The ride got a lot bumpier. Gravel? A dirt road?

_ Small mercies,  _ Tony thought,  _ that he was so dehydrated. _ At least he was spared  _ that  _ particular humiliation even as the ride jostled and rattled his bruised and aching body. Probably added a few especially deep new bruises along the way.

Eventually, the truck stopped again.

The driver walked away.

And this time, it didn’t come back.

Tony drifted in and out of awareness. He shivered through the night. Managed a few hours of sleep in the early morning, when the sun began to warm the space.

Time passed.

Warm became uncomfortable became stifling. With it, the realization that  _ they weren’t coming back. _

Tony had been left here, to bake alive, in the back of a camper at the end of some unknown road who-knew-where. He wasn’t even thirsty anymore, which he knew was a terrible sign.

The temperature leveled, then blessedly began to drop. The slow-cooker failed to broil its cargo, at least for the day.

No doubt, half-baked as he was, it’d manage the feat tomorrow.

Hours of shuddering. Time, already confused and tangled in his mind, stopped existing.

_ Was this was it felt like to die? _

Tony began to hallucinate.

_ Stay with me,  _ a voice that wasn’t real and wasn’t there begged.

_ No, you got it wrong. I’m coming home now. I’ll see you soon, mom. _

The imagined sounds morphed into a vibrant, technicolor scene. A golden figure haloed by blinding white light had finally come for him.

_ Don’t go into the light. _

Tony couldn’t move, but he went.

+++

_ That guy,  _ Steve thought,  _ was an asshole. _

The call had come in on Friday afternoon. A haul request, four hours away, within the next twenty-four hours. The customer, a grouchy middle-aged hermit in a dilapidated shack on land that he’d  _ somehow  _ convinced someone to buy. The customer, who wanted them to haul away his “vintage camper” because he “couldn’t be arsed to sell the damned thing, not that there’s anyone round ‘ere that’d buy that piece a’ shit.” The customer, willing to pay the exorbitant fees Bucky managed to extort from him in exchange for the long-distance, expedited service.

The customer, that agreed to pay up front and met them on the edge of his property in a rusted blue truck loaded to the brim with packed furniture and boxes.

He’d handed over the cash and keys in an envelope smudged with dirt and grime.

“Back cabin’s got a padlock I ain’t got the key for,” the man had said. “Nothin’ I care about in there; y’all can find your own damn bolt-cutters.”

Bucky had cut in before Steve got too tempted to say half the things on his mind. Which was probably for the best.

The truck, when they finally laid eyes on it, was run-down enough that “vintage” seemed quite the stretch. The coach and base of the truck was—or at least, had once been—deep red with wooden side panels. The slide-on camper wasn’t so much a slide-on as it was completely integrated into the bed of the truck. It was little more than a glorified corrugated tin box. It was painted in thick, white-and-tan bands that, like the rest of the vehicle, had seen better days.

The side windows were long-since boarded up, though miraculously all the glass panes were still in tact. The back had a cargo-van style entrance with a latch that, sure enough, had been bolted closed and padlocked into place.

Steve didn’t look forward to finding out what its insides looked like.

_ It’ll be a miracle if this thing makes it back to the yard,  _ Steve thought. Aloud, he said, “Should’ve brought the tow truck.”

Bucky nodded in agreement.

After an examination of the slightly-better-off cabin, Steve got in and cautiously turned the ignition. It sputtered to life surprisingly easily.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Steve said, more to himself than to Bucky, and cautiously drove up the driveway.

Bucky followed in his personal vehicle. They managed to stay together until the hit the main highway and inevitably were separated.

Bucky beat him back to the junkyard by a solid thirty-five minutes.

“Dunno ‘bout you,” Steve said. “But I don’t want to see the inside of that thing before Monday at the earliest.”

“Monday I’ll be in Sioux Falls with Nat,” Bucky reminded him.

“Lucky you.”

The rest of Saturday then Sunday came and went far too quickly.

Six a.m. on the dot, Steve pulled up to the small office front of Barnes & Rogers Salvage. If he took a few minutes longer than usual to savor his dark roast coffee than usual… well, Bucky wasn’t around to tease him about it.

_ Suppose I should go see just what we’re dealing with on this one. _

There were probably going to be spiders. Dead mice, too.

He loaded a wheelbarrow with tools and headed out into the yard.

Even in a junkyard full of abandoned pick-ups and skeletal sedans, the camper was an eyesore.

Steve cut the lock and opened the doors.

The first thing that hit him in the rush of stale air was the smell.

It was like walking into a landfill. Like opening the doors on a farm’s worth of barn animals that’d been cooped up far too long. Like walking into a public restroom in a run-down subway station in the worst part of town. Dried sweat and sickness. Mildew and rot. 

What people meant when they said something “smelled like death.”

He took an instinctive step back, turning away from the stench, then froze. Did a double take.

_ Jesus, is that a dead animal? _

There was a lump atop what had once been the sleeping space at the back—front—of the camper.

How long had it been in here, rotting? Who the hell locked a rotting carcass in their camper and just  _ forgot to mention it? _

Then the lump twitched.

_ Just shifted by the doors opening. _

Steve wished he could believe that.

He had a  _ really bad  _ feeling about this.

Glassy yellow eyes, two pinpricks in the darkness, reflected the bright, early-morning sunlight.

_ They were already open. _

The eyes blinked, so slowly that Steve had time to register it happening.

The creature let out a low, pained moan.

_ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. _

The noise was enough to startle Steve out of his paralyzed stupor.

He’d brought an ax, meant to start tearing out the interior or through the tin if the bolt cutter had failed. Steve grabbed it now.

He couldn’t tell what the creature was, not from this distance, but if it was still alive enough to move, then it was still alive enough to be dangerous—especially if it was half as deliriously fevered as its surroundings suggested.

At least thirty-six hours locked in this confined space. Probably more.

This was more likely to end in a mercy killing than anything else.

Cautiously, Steve climbed into the camper and approached. It wasn’t far, of course—a few steps at most. But it was enough to make out the creature more clearly.

It was… it was like nothing Steve had ever seen before.

Somewhere between a wolf and a bear, with shaggy, matted brown hair. There were patches missing, where the skin was inflamed and the outlines of bones pressed again loose skin.

It was bound like a calf in a cattle drive, on its side with all four limbs secured in a single loop. Its right ear was pierced by the kind of anchored RFID tag seen on industrialized ranches.

But this was no barnyard animal.

It was… there was really only one word that could describe it.

It was a Beast.

Sluggish eyes drifted open. For a moment, they seemed to latch on to Steve. Through the pain and delirium, there was a flicker of awareness. Intelligence. Its eyes slid towards the ax in his hands, then back at Steve’s face. Something like… understanding, like resignation, filled its features.

Something like a plea, one that didn’t expect an answer.

Then its eyes slid shut again, and it went entirely boneless.

  
  
  


It wasn’t dead. For a minute, Steve had thought it was. Then he’d noted the shallow rise and fall of its chest. Managed to find a weak heartbeat.

He should kill it.

Put it out of its misery.

_ (“We never leave a man behind.”) _

This wasn’t a man, of course. But neither was it a mindless animal.

Steve couldn’t do it. He’d known, from the moment he realized there was something  _ alive  _ in the back of the camper, that he would do everything he could to save its life.

He should have  _ questioned. _

Should have at  _ least  _ done a cursory exam of the interior before heading home for the remainder of the weekend.

But he hadn’t, and this creature had suffered for his choices.

  
  
  


Even with Steve’s considerable strength, it was a struggle to remove the beast from the back of the camper.

There’d been the chain, for one. It linked a collar around the beast’s neck to the cabin-side wall of the camper. Steve hadn’t noticed it until it was pulled taut, and he’d had to fetch the bolt cutters again to separate the two.

He managed, inch by laborious inch, to drag the beast toward the edge of the… well, pallet was probably a more accurate term than mattress, at this point. He felt a bit guilty using the rope binding its limbs as a handhold, but there were few options in such a confined space. Eventually, he’d pulled it free.

Or rather, pulled  _ him  _ free _ .  _ Steve strangely felt like it was indecent, like it should be wearing pants, when he discovered  _ that  _ particular detail.

Steve scooped the beast up, and deposited him as gentle as he could into the emptied wheelbarrow.

In the harsh light of day, the beast looked more like a corpse than ever.

It was gagged, too. Another incongruous detail, another ill-fitting piece in a jigsaw Steve couldn’t even begin to assemble.

Cautiously, figuring the beast was too weak to try to bite off Steve’s hand if it awoke unexpectedly anyway, he removed the gag.

The action revealed four elongated canines and a wad of fabric wedge within its mouth. Steve pulled that out as well, a disgusting mess wet with bile and blood and other bodily fluids, that unraveled just enough to be recognizable as an sock. Worse, as a worn and  _ unwashed  _ sock.

Steve had seen many disturbing things during his time in Special Ops, but the casual, pointless cruelty of it all… 

Well. Steve had to swallow back his own urge to vomit.

He cut the beast’s limbs free, then rolled the wheelbarrow toward the back of the garage at the entrance to the yard.

  
  
  


Steve was leery of leaving the beast alone for too long. He made a pit-stop in the office, calling Mary and letting her know she could take the day off, that the shop would be closed today. He’d been a bit terse on the phone, perhaps. Probably gave Mary a good reason to be mildly concerned; Steve  _ never  _ took the day off like this.

He scrawled a note in thick, black sharpie—

CLOSED TODAY — MONDAY JUNE 23RD

—and stuck it beneath the already-present “Closed” sign on the door.

He climbed to the garage loft storage and pulled out a metal basin that he and Bucky had occasionally used for ice baths in the hottest days of the summer. It would be a bit cramped, but not overly-so.

The next part would be tricky. If anything would rouse the beast, it would be the shock of being hosed down with cold water. Whatever intelligence the creature might have, whatever strange cross-breed or… whatever… it was, it was still a wild animal.

Hell, even a  _ human  _ was unlikely to react favorably to being awoken by having cold water dumped on them. Especially not if they looked fresh from a concentration camp like the beast did.

In the end, he decided that he was strong enough to overpower the beast if it  _ did  _ wake up, and that would hopefully be good enough for now.

Worse came to worse, there was enough of a tail from where he’d cut the beast’s chain that he could use that to subdue it comparatively safely.

_ Please don’t let it come to that,  _ Steve prayed, and turned the spigot.

  
  
  


It didn’t come to that.

In its own way, that was equally disturbing. Still, small blessings in that Steve was able to do a preliminary hose-down of the beast, sluicing away the worst of the mess. He didn’t bother scrubbing, not without soap and when a lot of that fur would likely need to be removed entirely. But he did his best to flush out the wounds and rinse out the fur where he could, until the basin was nearly full of foamy grey water.

He emptied and refilled the container three times in the cleaning process before the water remained relatively clear. He managed to get the beast to swallow several small sips of water and figured out the bare bones of a plan. Or at least, the start of one.

_ Small steps. _

Steve toweled the beast off. When it continued to shiver, he fetched a fresh, dry towel and wrapped it in that. Then he picked up the phone and made a call.

“Hey, Sam? Mind if I come visit today? I need a favor.”

  
  
  


The Dakotas Bird Sanctuary was run by two of his old army friends, Sam and Clint. Codenamed Falcon and Hawkeye respectively during the time under Steve’s command, they’d turned what had been a running joke into a reality after their team officially disbanded.

Seven years later, and Steve could still hardly believe they’d done it.

But then, was it any more crazy than Steve and Bucky’s salvaging business?  _ (Yes.)  _ Or Nat’s fast-tracked climb through law school to partner at the most successful law firm in Sioux Falls?  _ (Maybe.) _

Getting the beast up here had been another dilemma in itself. In the end, he’d simply bundled the beast in the backseat, securely cocooned in towels, and hoped for the best. If freezing-cold water hadn’t caused it to stir, hopefully the trip wouldn’t either.

Still, he kept one eye on the rearview mirror the entire two-hour drive to the Sanctuary. He gave Sam just enough details to be ready for him, but had been a bit cagey about just what, exactly, Steve was bringing upstate.

In his defense, it was a bit hard to explain the beast without sounding like he was having Sam on. It was something out of a fairytale.  _ Or a nightmare,  _ Steve amended grimly.

+++

Tony awoke to a familiar nightmare.

His thoughts were hazy, like they always were when he was coming down from something Zola had given him.

Except—except—

_ That wasn’t right, was it? _

He’d been—been—

Zola had… sold him?

Fragments of conversation, overheard while he packed away his Master’s belongings.

Then—then—

His Master had gone into a rage, worse that he’d ever seen.

_ “I’ve no use for you anymore, Beast.” _

The voices. The endless hours, trapped in that box.

_ The angel in the light. _

Not an angel, then.

Why? Tony hadn’t… Usually, when Zola had been angry with him, chained him to a tree or forced him into the cellar closet, he’d at least done  _ something  _ to earn the man’s ire. Not even just general mistakes or disobedience. The cellar especially was reserved for the most egregious of crimes. For attempting to escape, not that he’d tried for nearly two years now. For ruining one of his experiments, or sabotaging one of his projects. Even when Tony  _ hadn’t  _ done anything to his work, his Master tended to blame him regardless.

But this time. This was—this was different. Worse, in a lot of ways. And for what? 

_ To break in the beast, maybe. _

Because, if his new master would do  _ this  _ as a sort of… warning… then what would he do if Tony legitimately angered them?

With that pleasant though, Tony opened his eyes.

He was in a cage. No surprises there. Much higher ceiling than he was used to. At least ten feet. Tall enough that he could stand up, even.

_ If he felt suicidal. _

The floor itself was about four-by-seven. Enough space for him to stretch out, theoretically.

He’d been laid on what looked like an old twin-size mattress topper. No blankets, and no clothes but that was par for the course.

No clothes, and no—no—

The collar was gone. As was most of his fur.

No wonder he felt about twenty pounds lighter. He probably was.

He was clean. His wounds sutured and bandaged. His claws— _ hands, dammit _ —were bound by padded mittens, but other than that?

He was in surprisingly good condition, all things considered.

Towards the front of the cell were three bowls. Two were shallow. Improvised dog bowls by the looks of them, but still—

Water. Food. Not just food, but multiple  _ types  _ of food, even. Oats and grains in one compartment. Fruits and cut vegetables in the other. And in the third bowl, that was less a bowl and more a bucket, was a…

Live mouse. 

_ Funny.  _

Tony had the strong urge to knock the bucket over and send the mouse on its way.

_ At least one of us should be free, right Jerry? _

He didn’t, though. At least, not for now.

Last thing he needed was Jerry getting into his water and splashing it everywhere. Or doing the same with the food supplies, and then Tony would be  _ literally  _ eating off the floor, on top of losing some to the other side of the cage door.

Of course, this was probably all some sort of game. Drugged food, or poisoned water.

Tony didn’t care.

His new Master—or Masters, plural, who the hell knew at this point—would do what they would. Hopefully, the only game here was the implied degradation-slash-humiliation of the manner in which he was to consume said food and drink.

He could potentially, if he was careful enough, pick up the water bowl and drink with relative dignity.

_ Ass in the air and drink like a dog. Or drink like a person, and risk spilling water. _

Once, perhaps, he might have made a different choice. These days? There was no question what he would do.

He looked out the cell front. Still alone. For now, at least.

Tony crawled over to the bowls, cautious of irritating any of his healing wounds

He tried the water, first. A few sucked-in sips, careful to waste as little as possible to a wet muzzle.

He counted prime numbers up to 9,973 and then—when his brain was still easily following the sequence and he felt no worse for wear—repeated the process with the food.

He had just decided that it was safe to start properly eating when the door to the larger room opened.

_ How utterly predictable. _

He eyed the man—dark skin, average height, close-shaved hair—that walked in warily. Was this his new owner? He straightened from where he’d been bent over the bowls, and waited.

“Oh, good. You’re awake. Steve’ll be happy, he’s been all  _ mutant beast  _ this and  _ demon creature  _ that. I mean, no need to stand on attention, dude. Don’t stop on my account; you need all the calories you can get. Took me half the day to patch you up from what that bastard did. Lucky you’re alive.” 

Tony watched his captor for several more seconds before, finally, he dipped his head and resumed eating. If he’d shifted his posture to be  _ slightly  _ more dignified at the expense of efficiency… well. The guy  _ was  _ staring at him. Last thing Tony wanted to do was give him any ideas.

The staring was unnerving.

Tony’s experiences over the last… however-the-fuck-many years suggested that he was far safer outside the spotlight. Attention brought a whole slew of unpleasantness possibilities with it, and this guy was watching him like…

Well, like he was an animal in an exhibit.

_ Which he wasn’t, dammit. He was a  _ person, and it was  _ stupid  _ that this… this… casual dehumanization, like he really  _ was  _ just some wild animal they’d hauled in from the forest… It shouldn’t still manage to bother him, after everything. With so many other unknowns.

His new masters might have decided to forgo the collar, but…

At least Zola acknowledged his humanity. Not always, sometimes not for days or weeks when the mood struck, but…

Tony’s throat tightened. His eyes stung.

He was still hungry, but he couldn’t bring himself to take another bite.

He sat up. Wiped his mouth with a mitted hand.

He scooted back the small distance to the mattress pad until he was almost-but-not-quite pressed against the wall. He didn’t look up.

Then the man spoke, all faux-sympathy and mocking words.

“Menu not meet your standards?” he asked.

When Tony replied, it was more a reminder to himself than it was any attempt at true obeisance. The words were rote. Carefully toneless and bland. Just enough deferential sincerity to—he hoped—avoid them being interpreted as sarcastic or droll.

_ (Though, to be fair…) _

“I apologize, Master. I meant no offense. I am grateful for your kind generosity, and ask that you forgive me for the unintentional slight.”

Something clattered to the ground.

Tony looked up. The man was staring at him in disbelief. Tony felt the harsh sting of satisfaction at the man’s shock. Shock that a beast would dared to speak out of turn.

_ Sorry, dude. Guess you and your buddy Steve haven't managed to cook the humanity out of me just yet.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Would you believe that when I was thinking about what to write this morning, I thought I was going to write about MIT-Era Rhodey freaking over possibly-OD'ing Tony?
> 
> [Part Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450/chapters/50396741)


	18. Muffled Scream (Post-CW Tony & GotG Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “—You are safe. It is August twenty-third, twenty-sixteen. Seventeen hundred hours Coordinated Universal Time. Fifteen minutes past the hour. You are not in danger. The Iron Man armor is standing guard. No one is going to touch you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: panic/anxiety attack, kidnapped Tony Stark
> 
> Hi! Have some hardcore anxiety followed by BAMF Tony Stark. (Sequel to [Chapter Ten.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450/chapters/49886327))

Tony awoke entirely submerged.

_ He couldn’t breathe. _

He panicked. His mouth opened against his will. He needed air. Needed to breathe. Needed to scream.

Thick, viscous liquid flowed into his mouth. Down his throat. It was in his nose. In his ears. Everywhere, all around them, the weight of it pressing in. 

_ Drowning him. _

His attempts to scream were muffled in their infancy. He flailed. Struggled violently. But the liquid, the goop, was everywhere. In his eyelashes, sealing his eyes shut. Surrounding his arms, his legs, keeping him still.

An old fear, drowning. Hands pressing at his back, at his shoulders. His own, desperately clinging to the heavy weight of the only thing keeping his heart beating. The sting of acid, the buzz of electricity. The icy cold. Up his nose, in his lungs.

Retching, heaving sobs when they at last let him breathe.

Past bled into present, and Tony fought to move with strength born of pure desperation.

Then beyond that, there was a hard barrier. Glass or steel or ceramic or something he didn’t know. Impenetrable. Unyielding.

He was surrounded on all sides. The walls closed in. He was trapped. Confined.

Locked away in a tank or a coffin or both.

A muffled pneumatic hiss. The liquid, draining away. Sliding free of his his body. His nose. His face.

He flung himself upward, through the space where the roof of his prison had been.

He heaved. His chest rose and fell in shuddering gasps. The goop he’d swallowed ran thin now as his body rebelled and violently expelled the mess.

A flicker of intelligence, of rationality, pierced his panicked gaze as he remembered how to breathe.

He rubbed at his eyes. Blinked rapidly and struggled to make sense of his fragmented thoughts and take in his surroundings.

Then he saw her. _ It._

Solid black irises covered most of the alien’s visible eyeball. From the top of her forehead, two flesh-cover antennae stuck straight up and outward, forming slightly curved stalks. At their tips, two iridescent white lights shone. Her face was carefully sculpted and fell firmly on the wrong side of uncanny valley. She wore green leather armor. 

And she was staring right at him.

And in a flash, it all came rushing back.

The flight. The desperate fight, outnumbered with back-up too far to make a difference.

He’d shot her.

And then—

Pinned down. _ (Again.) _ A fist slammed into him. _ (Again.) _ His jaw shattering, the certainty that this was it. That he was about to die. _ (Again-again-again.) _

But it could never be that easy for Tony Stark, could it?

He’d been kidnapped. _ (Again.) _ The aliens had returned, just as he’d always known they would. They’d taken his suit. _ (Taken him.) _

He was hyperventilating. And then he felt it. A foreign presence, _ her, _ invading his mind. _ (Oh god.) _ Not the red of rage and hate, but an incandescent white. Trying to burn away his emotion. His panic. _ (His self.) _

_ No! _

They couldn’t have him. Not this. Kill him, torture him, anything but this. He’d nearly destroyed the world through his fear, last time. If they twisted him, subverted him like Loki once had taken Barton...

_ God please no. _

_ (He wished Rogers had killed him.) _

_ (Wished his suit had imploded with him inside.) _

_ (That they’d left him to drown in the tank.) _

It was like fighting against the tide. Inexorable, a losing prospect from the start. He could feel it weighing in. Crushing away his terror, his will to fight, to resist.

_ (Would it really be so bad? To be content. To be at peace, finally, after four years of _knowing?)

And then it was gone.

Slowly, gradually, without the forced compliance pressed in from above, Tony stabilized in an unsteady equilibrium. Still alert. Frightened. Wary. But now, with the ability to see past it. To push it aside and let his rational made take over and assess the situation. Figure out just how screwed he was.

He could hear something now. A familiar voice. Low and steady, close but not invasive.

“—You are safe. It is August twenty-third, twenty-sixteen. Seventeen hundred hours Coordinated Universal Time. Fifteen minutes past the hour. You are not in danger. The Iron Man armor is standing guard. No one is going to touch you.”

The looped words were a familiar, grounding recitation.

“F—FRIDAY?” He managed.

“Boss? Boss! Boss, tell me five things you can see. You are safe. You are not in danger. Five things you can see.”

_ Five things. Five things. _

His eyes were already open. He struggled to _ see. _Something. Anything.

“A—armor. My armor.”

“Good, Boss. What else?”

“F—floor. Light. Wall. H—hand. My own hand.”

“Thank you. Boss, four things you can touch. You’re still safe.”

“Metal. The wall, it’s metal. My—my—” His hand shook as it rose to his face, to where there should be shattered bones and lacerations, but instead—

“My beard. Facial hair. The—the ground. Not metal. Or, or, different metal.” _ What else was there? _He grabbed at his own chest, feeling for—for— “My flight suit.”

“Good, Boss. You’re doing well; you’re not in danger. Three things you can hear.”

The ritual, like the preceding words, was familiar. A coping technique, learned in the process of developing B.A.R.F.

Three things he could hear. Two things he could smell. One thing he could taste. And from there—from there.

Back in the here and now. Back in reality.

Several deep, rhythmic breaths later, he was calm. Well, calm enough. A hand moved in his field of vision. A weapon, brought to bear against him. He reacted. Flinched away, raised his arm in a defensive gesture to activate the repulsor watch that _ wasn’t there _and—

No. Not a weapon. A—a cup? A glass. Of… water?

“It’s water, Boss. I’ve scanned it. Aside from trace amounts of fluoride and nitrogen, it’s pure H2O. There are no harmful chemicals present. It is safe to drink, I promise.”

FRIDAY. FRIDAY in… in the Iron Man armor. With him. On an alien ship. Ostensibly helping him, giving him something to drink, but—but— If she was here in the suit, why had he been… why hadn’t she…

He couldn’t bring himself to accept the cup. He looked away, eyes landing on a patch of empty ground. Not pleading, not gesturing but… FRIDAY gently placed the cup on the ground, within his reach. An offer, not a demand.

What happened, while he was out? Had they taken over FRIDAY? Subverted her somehow? It had happened before. Happened with Ultron. With a powerful scepter and an outside presence that tore through the paltry precautions place in its path. How else could he explain this, explain how his girl was somehow, impossibly, here with him. With a suit, even. In enemy hands.

The Iron Man, his armor, his tech, his AI. Captured alongside its creator, in spite of the immutable protocols meant to prevent just that eventuality.

_ Not so immutable after all, _he supposed.

But. But. He was _ thirsty. _ Trapped, and it wasn’t like he had a lot of options right not. Not if they _ had _ turned FRIDAY against him, reached the innermost protocols that no overrides—not even his own—should have been able to touch. If they’d somehow coerced her into cooperating, if that mental _ weight _had warped his AI... 

_ (Again. Again-again-again.) _

If any of the half-dozen other possible scenarios he’d conjured in a handful of seconds were true…

Tony willed himself to react. Willed his hand to move. To reach out. To grab. To raise the cup to his lips, and take a sip of water slightly below room temperature. He straightened his posture. Willed himself to walk that fine line being an indomitable refusal to be cowed by _ anyone _ or _ anything _and an aggressive defiance that more often triggered others to do their best to grind him down than anything. Captors, in his experience, rarely took well to blatant defiance.

His hand bore a faint tremble. The water sloshed and swirled but did not spill. He took another drink, deeper this time. His blood still pounded with adrenaline and stress and, yes, a sensible amount of fear. But like the calming words, and the easy willingness with which FRIDAY’d allowed him to retrieve the glass for himself, it helped.

He drank slowly. If it was laced with something, if FRIDAY had lied or her sensors fooled… If it contained a dose of a sedative, of a truth serum, of who-knew-what. Well. At least he would know.

_ (At least he wasn’t drowning in it.) _

He was at a strong disadvantage here. They could have forced him to drink. Injected him with something. Shove him back into that—into that tank. If Tony wanted to force their hand, if that was their goal…

He ignored the thoughts.

_ Not helpful, _ he thought sourly. _ And if you believed that, definitely better to learn sooner rather than later. _

Right now, he had virtually no data. If he wanted to fight back, wanted to escape, he needed information. 

He was Tony Goddamn Stark. He’d survived Afghanistan and three months as a captive of the Ten Rings. Survived a half dozen apocalyptic events and/or near death experiences. Survived yet another kidnapping—_ hi, Killian, and by the way, can I just say: f*ck you. Once more, for good measure. _

Whatever this was, whatever crazy situation he’d landed himself in now, he’d survive this too.

He’d drained about three-quarters of the cup when he finally lowered it. He cradled it a tad possessively and looked up. It wasn’t just Tony and FRIDAY in the room. Hadn’t been for who knows how long. The mind-invading alien woman was still there, but her companions were back too. He met the eyes of the only one of his captors that at least _ looked _human, the maybe-leader he’d first encountered in Missouri.

Tony shrouded himself in the one suit of armor _ one one _ had ever been able to strip him of entirely. Several had tried over the years. A few—Obadiah, _ Steve _—had even come close.

He was every inch Iron Man. Every inch Tony Stark: genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and the man who _ built _that armor while a civilian prisoner of war. He was the Da Vinci of the 21st Century. The Merchant of Death and the Savior of New York.

He always would be, no matter how precarious his present situation might be.

That man, the larger-than-life image Tony forever walked in the shadow of, spoke.

“Okay, you got me. Got FRIDAY to cooperate, even, or managed quite the convincing doppelganger. Congrats. Few have managed the former, and the latter puts you in a pretty damn exclusive club. So. What the _ fuck _is your goal here? What, exactly, do you want?”


	19. Asphyxiation (Post-Apocalypse AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be a slow death, asphyxiating. He might linger for hours before he finally succumbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't have time to write a full "hopeful ending" add-on (because we've reached the point in the month where scenes feel incomplete without one), but I added a few headcanons in the endnotes to that effect anyways. :P

A world of ash surrounded Tony and he was running out of oxygen.

Oh, his rebreather still worked. It would continue to filter noxious fumes from the air and block out all toxins or carcinogens for weeks or even months to come. But a rebreather couldn’t generate breathable oxygen where there was none. With his supplemental pack nearly empty…

It would be a slow death, gradual asphyxiation. There was still some oxygen to be found in the environment. Enough that he might linger for hours before he finally succumbed.

Thinking about it too hard would only worsen the situation. The more he panicked, the faster his heart rate and the more oxygen he burned with every passing second. 

Tony should never have left. It’d been a fools errand, a hope and a prayer based on a blip on his sensors that was probably just imagined after all.

He could have made it. If the earthquake hadn’t come when he was too far into the ruins. If the rubble hadn’t fallen and torn a hole in the reinforced tank that took precious seconds he didn’t have to patch. If the only way out hadn’t been blocked. If, if, if.

His only option was to keep moving and without his nav systems down he was quite literally going in blind. His prodigious memory was no help; whatever path he might have divined from memory was made unrecognizable by the same damage that sealed him in. Any moment he might run into a final dead end. No way forward, no way back. A silent, unmarked death in a world full of so many graves already.

He should never have left.

Yet he could never have stayed.

Tony had been losing his mind in that bunker.

Even with JARVIS and the bots to help mitigate the feelings of loneliness, there were some things that an AI or a helper bot—no matter how advanced—could not provide.

Human touch, for one. Companionship. That feeling of simply _ being _ with another person. No matter how much Tony tried to convince himself his creations were _ alive, _that despite being non-organic they were still real in all the ways that counted, it wasn’t the same. Couldn’t be.

And after more than a year…

_ (Four-hundred sixty four days, eighteen hours, and nine minutes. But who’s counting?) _

There was never really a question as to whether or not he would go.

Or that when he went JARVIS wouldn’t be able to come with him.

Inevitably Tony began to flag. His fumbling walk became a trudge became a crawl. Out of breath, constantly taking in deep-heaving gulps of air that were not, could never be, enough.

Tony stopped.

Told himself, _ just a short break. _

Slid to the ground. Leaned his head back against the cool rock.

Promised himself, _ I’ll start up again soon. _

Tony broke most promises he made these days. Those he told himself most of all.

He thought he heard the sounds of movement, of voices, in the distance.

_ Nothing more than an illusion. _

+++

_ (A hundred yards away, Vi Potts and Jim Rhodes had no idea just how much their lives were about to change.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious: This is a Nuclear Winter style apocalypse AU. Jim & Vi, our stalwart Iron Man companions to-be, are allies on a scouting mission for {unspecified object, probably supplies} that has taken them far out of range of their normal trips. They stumble upon our intrepid hero and rescue him. Low-key freak-outs/miscommunications (because this /is/ me, and this /is/ a Whumptober prompt) and familiar nicknames when Tony wakes up, but eventually it all works out and the three of them decide to stay together. 
> 
> Friendship Feels ensue until eventually {unspecified plot, probably introducing Iron Man and involving world-saving shenanigans}. Eventual Happily Ever After with the Iron Fam. Pepper probably leads their newly-established survivors colony with Rhodey as her second/military leader. Tony/Pepper with their daughter Morgan's birth symbolizing the dawn of a new era.


	20. Trembling (Non-powered Vigilante AU Mk.2 Part III*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, Cap. About that. We… already have the Stark heir.”

The kid, Tony, was trembling.

Not that Sam could blame him, considering the circumstances. And perhaps it wasn’t fair to call him a  _ kid.  _ Teenagers rarely appreciated that ascription.

Still, it was hard to see anything beyond how incredibly young Tony looked. Back ramrod straight and pressed as far into the wall—away from Sam and Nat—as was physically possible. Barely old enough to be in high school, if that. There was a small, deep cut beneath his eye. Almost certainly self-treated. Any sane doctor would have gone for stitches or at least glue, but the cut was instead held closed by a trio of well-placed butterfly bandages. 

A scraped line of scratched skin curved downward from the laceration’s tail, following the line of his face into the fresh scab of a split lip. The skin around the wound wasn’t much better off. Swollen and puffed skin dragged the slant of his left eyelid down.

In short, he looked like shit.

The brief stillness following Tony’s understandable reaction to Stane’s screaming was broken—for Sam and Nat, at least—by the sound of static then a voice in their ears.

_ “Asset neutralized,”  _ Barnes said.

_ “Jesus Christ already? How?”  _ Clint asked. He stole the words straight out of Sam’s mouth. It’d been, what, fifteen minutes? Winter was efficient (read: terrifying) when active on a mission, but this wasn’t an assassination. Or at least, not  _ just  _ an assasination.

_ “You got all the info?”  _ Steve asked. And, bless his soul, Cap was probably the only person on their team that could have asked Winter that without even a hint of doubt.

_ “Yes. He affirmed the transaction with Raza. He also—”  _ Barnes paused, another red flag.

_ “Winter?”  _ Steve prompted, his voice gentler.

_ “He attempted negotiation,”  _ Barnes continued. _ There’s three.  _ Their targets, especially the ones that got an up close and personal encounter with the Winter Soldier, always tried to bargain. They never succeeded.

_ “Our silence, in exchange for enough money to cover what we were being paid to take this job, and the Stark heir.” _

And suddenly Sam understood why the kid looked vaguely familiar.

Tony, the battered teenager wandering around a middle-aged man’s country home in his boxers in the middle of the night, was  _ Tony Stark. _

Son of Howard Stark, the man whose mind was behind the company’s deadly technology. Obadiah Stane’s business partner. Son of the former CEO of Stark Industries.

Kid had been in the press a lot recently; something about him being a genius and starting at… Harvard? MIT? ...Already half-done with his degree in a few weeks. Sam didn’t remember much more about him, to be honest. They hadn’t proven Stark’s involvement yet, though tonight was meant to help on that front. There was even less reason to care about his… fourteen? Fifteen? ...year old son.

Even if Tony  _ did  _ know something about his father’s business. Which was unlikely, especially regarding the criminal-slash-treasonous skeletons in the Stark empire’s closest. Even  _ if.  _ The Avengers weren’t that kind of group.

_ We don’t do innocents, and we don’t do kids. _

“You’re Tony Stark,” Sam said aloud. 

Over the comms, the conversation continued. Steve sounded like he  _ very much did not  _ want to hear the answer to his own question when he asked Barnes—

_ “How’d you respond?” _

_ “He asked for silence. So I gutted him.  _ Silently.”

Sam didn’t need active comms to hear both Steve’s—a long-suffering sigh—and Clint’s—a bark of laughter—responses.

He met Nat’s gaze. Her expression was a muted mirror of his own in that moment on all counts.

Tony nodded, took a shaky, steadying breath, and confirmed—

“Yes.”

The knuckles on hands, still clenched in the combined fist Sam had ordered, were a bloodless white.

_ “Widow? Falcon? You get things sorted out?” _

Sam responded.

“Yeah, Cap. About that. We… already have the Stark heir.”

The silence this time was definitely stunned.

+++

_ This is my fault,  _ Tony realized in a flash of startling clarity.

Because those words… they sounded a lot less like “wrong place wrong time” and more “the target all along.” If they had hurt, or—or—

_ Not Obie.  _ The only person in the world who’d ever really cared about him. And sure, there was a  _ bit  _ of an ulterior motive, in that Obie knew he would take the reins of Stark Industries someday, or at least the technical departments. Obie constantly worked to temper and counterbalance the hard motivator that his dad provided. But if he was still hard on Tony in his own way, it wasn’t malicious in nature. Obie genuinely cared about him and about the company that would one day be Tony’s. More than once over the years, he’d wished that it was Obie, not Howard, that was his father.

His Uncle loved him. And Tony loved his Uncle.

_ Tony should never have called. _

Better they go through Howard than Obie, to get to him.

_ Bold of you to assume Howard wouldn’t instead pay them to take you off his hands. _

Better he’d just stayed in the Jarvis cottage, where he endangered only ghosts.

What did they want with Tony? Why?

Tony was—well, he wasn’t  _ no one.  _ But he wasn’t exactly a prime abduction target either. The one thing that came to mind, only two still-living people in the world even  _ knew  _ about. One was currently drunk off his ass and strung out in an alcoholic stupor. One was upstairs, currently…

“Widow encountered him,” Falcon said, then went silent. Tony desperately wished he could hear what was being said.

+++

  
  
  
  
  


+++

_ Elsewhere and Elsewhen _

_ _

On October 17, 2033, Pepper Stark walked onto the stage at the Infinite Memorial. Ten years out from the funeral, on the land where the Avengers once stood.

Pepper scanned the audience.

There were two empty chairs on the front row.

_ (Heroes get remembered. But Legends never die.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ever had a migraine so bad all you could do was curl up into a ball and wait for it to pass enough for you to (safely) drive yourself home? 0/10, would not recommend.


	21. Laced Drink (Sleeper Agent/Assassin Tony AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only once Raza accused him of being an Avengers sympathizer that Tony realized this was more than just an exercise in escape tactics and resisting interrogation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: torture, unethical medical experimentation and treatment of prisoners, brainwashing, implied gaslighting/grooming, manipulation, dehumanization...
> 
> ngl folks this one got hella dark outta nowhere.

The dinner was a test. Everything was, with Obie. Ten years under the man’s tutelage, Tony knew that well enough. Expected it, even.

He’d misjudged just what he was being tested on this time, though.

He’d thought it a test on society etiquette. A new mask he was expected to don with his transition from Howards Potts, unassuming research assistant, to Ezekial Stane, international assassin and heir apparent to the Stane empire.

It was not.

Or at least, that’s not all it was.

It was a test of his vigilance.

He’d done a cursory check for common drugs and poisons in his food and drink before consuming anything. When dining with a man that was wanted, dead or alive, by damn near every illicit organization on the planet, it would be foolish not to.

But Tony hadn’t expected this.

Whatever drug his drink had been laced with was potent.

One minute, he was fine. Discussing the latest news Obie’s spies had returned with from the Hudson. If rumors were to be believed, the Avengers had a pair of new recruits. Twins, only a few years older than Tony. Defectors from Hydra. Not just everyday grunts, either. The twins were said to have been the attack dogs of Von Strucker himself. Their exact abilities were unknown, but one thing was universally agreed upon: they were deadly.

If the Avengers had truly turned the Maximoff twins to their side, they were a more powerful threat than ever. Perhaps enough so that, should their battle with Hydra ever end and they turn their attention westward, they might pose a more formidable threat than ever.

One minute, Tony had been caught up in analyzing the implications of the information. 

The next, his head was spinning and his vision was going spotty.

He didn’t even have time to draw away from the table. Tony slumped. His cheek landed in the still-laden plate of beef stew with a dull plop.

  
  


It took Tony twenty minutes to escape, the first time. Forty-five, the second. Four hours, then eight, and then—when he still hasn’t managed to free himself after a full twelve hours—Raza visited for the first time.

They gave him food _ (not enough) _ and water _ (never enough), _and then the real training began.

Training. Torture. One in the same, when your mentor was Obadiah Stane.

It was only once Raza accused him of being an Avengers sympathizer that Tony realized this was more than just an exercise in escape tactics and resisting interrogation.

Oh, it was still about those things.

But more than that, it was a cover. And once the pieces clicked into place, he knew what needed to happen. The best deep cover agents truly _ become _the person they pretend to be.

Good old-fashioned dubiously consensual brainwashing.

No magic, because that would be detected. 

Just time, and repetition, and pain.

Tony had to forget what he’d realized. Until he did, until the only thing that could bring them and his knowledge of his mission back were a set of highly specific triggers—

Raza was going to break Tony. Tony would break, then break again, and then—

_ Toes barely scraping the ground, slumped in chains. _

CRACK

_ “Tell me your name.” _

_ “H—Howard. Howard Potts.” _

_ Pressed against the wall, back flayed raw. _

CRACK

_ “Tell me your name.” _

_ “Ezekial Stane! It’s Ezekial Stane, please—!” _

_ On his knees, his hands manacled to a pole._

CRACK

_ “Tell me your name.” _

_ “...Tony Stark.” _

_ Spread-eagle on a sinner’s cross, held in place by sturdy cuffs, _

CRACK

_ “Anthony Eh—edward Stark.” _

_ Bent over a bench, arms stretched and taut. _

CRACK

_ “Anthony Stark, it’s Anthony Stark I swear it!” _

_An iron collar linked to shackles at his wrist and ankles._

CRACK

_ “Tony. Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony.” _

_An iron collar, bolted to the wall._

CRACK

_ “Tell me your name.” _

_ “I have no name.” _

_ “Good. Tell me who you are.” _

_ “No one. I am no one.” _

_ “Good. Tell me _ what _ you are.” _

_ “Nothing. I am nothing.” _

_ An iron collar, shackled to the floor._

CRACK

_ “Tell me what you are.” _

_ “Whatever you want! I’m whatever you want me to be!” _

_ An iron collar._

CRACK

_ “Tell me what you are.” _

_ “Worthless.” _

_Iron collar._

CRACK

_ “Tell me.” _

_ “I am no one. I am nameless. I am worthless.” _

_ “That’s right.” _

_Iron._

CRACK

_ “Mr. Stane? He’s ready.” _

+++

The raid on Obadiah Stane’s mansion was months in the making.

The planning began shortly after Wanda and Pietro’s defection. When the duo made their escape, they—or rather, Wanda—did so with a treasure trove of valuable information on Hydra, its allies, and its enemies.

Stane’s cabal fell in the lattermost category, and it was their lack of direct ties to Hydra that kept them off of the Avengers radar for the better part of a decade.

Their inattention came with its own price, for it had apparently allowed Stane and his allies to develop a powerful weapon, codenamed Project Jericho. Hydra heard whispers of the weapon, which was said to have the potential to topple nations and level mountain ranges, and coveted it for themselves.

Hydra kidnapped a Ten Rings scientist and handed him off to Wanda for interrogation.

He hadn’t known much more about the project beyond its existence, that Stane was involved in it personally, and that it was entering the final stages of testing and development.

When Wanda defected, it was one of the many details learned during the weeks she spent in debriefing and interrogation. Nat handled the case personally, while Clint worked with Pietro.

It’d been a stressful time for all of them. The Maximoffs were the highest-ranking Hydra turncoats to date. Even then it was only made possible because they were two of Hydra’s few success stories in their human experimentation efforts, manipulated into joining the group under false pretenses, rather than True Believers.

Their defection had unspooled dozens of time-sensitive dangling threads. The Jericho Project was just far enough under the “clear and present danger” test to get deprioritized.

When their raids on Hydra settled down as much as they ever did, Nat was again sent in to investigate the threat personally. She did so under the cover of Natalie Rushman, a low-ranking laundress. Her unflappable aura got her assigned to Stane’s personal chambers within a few short weeks. Her… other assets… soon caught Stane’s eyes directly.

It was a delicate balance, but almost six weeks to the day following her “promotion” to Stane’s bedside, she found a final clue that allowed her to piece together the all-important information.

Project Jericho, in whatever precise form it existed, was being run from beneath the old Stark estate. Likely from the workshop of the late elder Stark himself. At the very least, near the space where it had once been.

Before he died, Howard Stark was a paranoid bastard. Turned out, Stane was even worse. For good reason, admittedly. Stane had an entire crew of assassins and spies under his employ. Howard always skirted the darker sides of the western banks, but when Stane took power he drove straight into the deep end.

Case in point: the bunker, once fortified against the more explosive of Howard Stark’s experiments, was now a veritable dungeon.

And Stane, it seemed, had been busy collecting inmates to fill it.

The medical experiments were the kinds that resulted in lopped off limbs and exploded patients. Nat redirected a pair of agents to salvage data from the lab, a part of her already planning out how she was going to introduce the research to Bruce without setting off another Incident.

Beneath these labs, hidden behind a secret entrance blended seamlessly into the architecture, was yet another level.

Nat and Sam descended the staircase side-by-side, alert and ready to call for backup at a moment’s notice.

It was a workshop of a very different sort they found at the bottom behind a series of increasingly-elaborate security measures.

This had to be it. The home of Project Jericho.

They picked their way through the main area of the floor, until their reached a set of thick, air-locked doors with a small, dark corridor between them.

A silent conversation told in glances and shared looks took place.

Sam signaled for backup. Clint confirmed his approach, ETA forty-five seconds.

Nat took point.

The duo entered the corridor.

The door closed behind them with an ominous clang. Thirteen steps exactly, they reach the second door. Opened it, and took in Project Jericho for the first time.

An emaciated figure, scars layer upon scars upon still-bloodied wounds, lay curled near the far edge of the room. It—no, _ they _ —wore little but the thick, iron collar wrapped around their—no, _ his _—throat.

He was muttering to himself in a low, continuous murmur. He didn’t react to their presence at first, though there was a slight hitch in his breath as Nat crossed beneath the single light illuminating the room.

_ (Cell. Torture chamber.) _

She swapped her weapon for one that would shock and stun rather than kill. The man didn’t look capable of putting up much of a fight, but neither was he restrained in any way. Beyond his obvious wounds, at least.

Natasha knew well what sort of relief this manner of desperation often sought.

The man could be a trap in any number of ways. Rigged like the men and women above him had been as a sort of Trojan Horse. A prisoner taken from one of Stane’s numerous equally-criminal enemies, possibly even Hydra itself.

Project Jericho was a man. Or at least, this man played a central role in Project Jericho.

Call it another form of captivity or call it rescue should the man prove… not benign, necessarily, but at least not a ticking time bomb…

The man would be leaving the facility with them.

Nat was right beside him now. She crouched down, at last able to make out the short catechism the man’s barely-their rasp of a voice recited on an endless repeat.

_ “I am no one. I am nameless. I am worthless.” _


	22. Hallucinations (Beauty & the Beast Modern AU Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because, let's be honest with ourselves here. Which was more likely, that Sam had cracked and was imagining things, or that the rescued creature had actually just spoken? Backup. He needed backup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: misunderstandings, referenced slavery and general dehumanization/maltreatment, starvation, anxiety
> 
> Because I couldn't get the picture of Sam's "Holy shit, I've gone and lost it" reaction to Tony-as-Beast speaking out of nowhere from my head.
> 
> [Part One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450/chapters/50174444)

Steve stayed overnight at the Bird Sanctuary. After the exhausting events of the day prior, he slept like the dead.

His ringtone, alas, didn’t care how exhausted he was. It was tuned on max volume, complete with accompanying vibrations that rattled noisily against the hardwood floor.

_ What on Earth—? _

Caller ID claimed it was Sam, but considering the man was a couple minutes walk away at most... 

The call connected. Sam said nothing.

“Sam?” Steve prompted. He put the phone on speaker and climbed out of bed. “Sam, did something happen? If this is a buttdial I swear…”

“No, it’s not,” Sam said. His voice sounded… off.

“I’m on my way,” Steve promised. He rifled through the closet for a shirt and pants that wouldn’t look comically tight of him. “What’s got you spooked? Is Beast awake?” 

At some point during the long hours of treatment and grooming the creature yesterday, “beast” had shifted from a descriptor to a name.

“Yeah… about that. I’m either hallucinating or… just get your ass in here, please.”

More concerned than ever, Seve hung up and did as he was bade.

  
  
  


The cage they’d locked Beast in was normally meant to keep birds  _ out  _ rather than keep something  _ in,  _ but it was the only place on-site large enough to house the creature comfortably. They didn’t exactly have Beast-proof leashes on hand either. Even if they had, Steve knew none of them had the faintest desire—or the stomach, for that matter—to chain the poor animal up. The mitts to keep Beast from clawing at his bandaging were easy enough to acquire on short notice, at least. Even if they weren’t technically…

Well. Let’s just say that Beast’s hands were far closer in size and shape to that of a man than a bird.

Steve was no blushing virgin, but…

Oh, who was he kidding? Steve was as vanilla as they came, and stammering his way through an explanation of what he was looking for to the indifferent sales attendant the afternoon prior was one of the more mortifying experiences of his life.

His friends were  _ never  _ going to let him live that one down.

Steve was ready for anything when he walked into the back storeroom.

What he found was… underwhelming.

Steve looked between Sam and the Beast, trying to surmise what had the former so spooked. Beast was awake, and his unblinking stare directed at… Sam’s feet?... might be a bit unnerving over time, but…

Yellow eyes flicked in Steve’s direction before returning to their fixed presence.

“...Sam?” Steve prompted cautiously.

“It talks,” Sam said.

+++

_ Yeah “it” talks,  _ Tony thought sourly.  _ It can even do simple tasks or arithmetic on command if you ask. Might even manage Hot Cross Buns on the piano if you take off the mitts. _

Anger was dangerous, but it was the only thing holding Tony back from a full-blown anxiety attack now that not just one, but  _ two,  _ men loomed outside his cage and stared straight at him.

_ Should’ve freed Jerry when I had the chance. _

The other man, his… well, the man who’d paid to take possession of Tony then forgotten about him for a couple days, and Tony  _ really needed to not think about that right now… _

“It what?” Steve asked the newly-dubbed Sam.

They went back and forth, always talking about Tony  _ (about Beast, as they had no doubt learned to do from Zola)  _ rather than  _ to  _ him.

Was this to be today’s game, then?

What was worse? To speak and have your words pass unacknowledged as a dog’s barks, or to never speak at all?

“Well, there’s an easy enough way to settle this,” Steve said. In the manner of a man humoring the crazy person, he turned his attention to Tony. 

“Beast? Beast,” he stated firmly. Then, when he had Tony’s attention, the order came. “Speak.”

_ (Like a dog ordered to bark on command.) _

And like a flip had been switched, Tony obeyed.

“And what would you like me to say, Master?” 

The next several minutes left Tony feeling perpetually wrong-footed. Tony was gifted at saying the wrong things, and since damn-near every sentence that came out of Steve and Sam’s mouths were dubiously-rhetorical questions, Tony knew a misstep was inevitable.

The food he hadn’t eaten— _ stupid, so stupid— _ taunted him. The water, at least, he’d managed to lap up a decent amount, but the food…

“Wait, does that mean… do you have a name?” Steve, again. “I mean, what’s your name? If you have one.”

_ What’s in a name? _

“Beast,” he said simply, “Is not inaccurate.”

Somewhere along the way, his name—his true name, the name he thought of as  _ him— _ had become something precious. Something separate from the beast, from the nightmare that’d begun. Giving his clueless owners his name, allowing them to refer to him as  _ Tony  _ while they treated him… well, however they intended to treat him once Q&A was over…

To give his name as Tony now would be to give up Tony, the human he’d once been, for good.

“I—really? Beast? Are you sure?” Steve asked.

_ Oh joy, back into questions with right and wrong answers. _

“Call me whatever you wish, Master. It does not change what I am.”

“Can you… you don’t need to call me that, you know.”

_ Fucking mind games. _

“Please forgive me for overstepping then, Sir.”

“No, I mean—you don’t have to call me sir, or Master, or—or—anything like that. You’re not some—some—I don’t know. Call me Steve, or Rogers, or  _ hell  _ even Captain is better—!” 

_ And there it was. Couldn’t even make it ten minutes. _

Tony bit his lip. Last thing he needed at the moment was to piss… Captain Rogers? Cap? Rogers? ...off further. He tensed despite himself, a movement the duo  _ clearly  _ noted.

Something hardened in Rogers’s gaze. Corded muscles tensed; his jaw clenched. He looked ready to stalk forward and—and—

Sam held out a hand and prevented his advance.

Tony didn’t dare look up, curling in on himself just a bit further. Not quite trying to shield himself, not yet. But… ready.

The thought crossed his mind that, without the protective barrier of thick, heavily-matted fur, this was probably going to hurt in new and unanticipated ways.

_ To think he’d been tentatively grateful for the kindness… _

It wasn’t Rogers that approached, but Sam.

The cage door opened and Sam—Sam was—

Sam crouched. He was going to—he was taking the food and water bowls away, and Tony—Tony was still  _ so thirsty. So hungry... _

“Please,” Tony begged, even as he hated himself for the concession.


	23. Bleeding Out (Human Sacrifice Tony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lull was a peculiar elixir. It did not send its victims into a semi-conscious state. It didn’t paralyze, nor was it likely to render the victim entirely insensate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: human sacrifice, Hurt No Comfort

Lull was a peculiar elixir. It did not send its victims into a semi-conscious state. It didn’t paralyze, nor was it likely to render the victim entirely insensate.

Rather, as the name suggested, it lulled those who drank it into a passive, docile state. Still able to feel, still able to think, physically respond to external stimuli, and follow basic directions. Just unable to connect the spaces between it all in order to independently choose to act.

So Tony didn’t resist when the shamans came for him. Didn’t resist when two priestesses stripped him of his clothing and washed his body. Didn’t resist as they scrubbed his unresisting form thoroughly and efficiently. 

Finely-honed razors glided across his skin in steady strokes, removing body and facial hair until only his eyebrows remained unscathed. Those, they plucked and shaped into a pattern only their wielders could divine.

Next came the essential oils and lotions. The twin priestesses kneaded and massaged his limbs until their boneless pliability was as much a product of the soothing treatment as the Lull. Their touch did not shy away from any part of his clean-shaven skin, to certain inevitable results. Despite this, the movements themselves bore no true heat. Action and reaction, call and response. Perfunctory, in that regard.

The excess oils were sluiced away by steaming buckets of water poured over his form. At the end, Tony was gently patted dry with warm, fluffy towels white as snow. His hair was trimmed and styled into thick, textured waves.

The shamans returned and moved Tony to an elevated slab of lithographic limestone. 

A ceremonial dagger slashed open his palm. The blood drained into the awaiting bowl in a small, steady stream until the ceramic dish was sufficiently filled.

Tony’s hand was bandaged, and his was given another dose of lull.

A bamboo whisk was used to mix powdered henna into the blood, forming a dark reddish-brown, viscous paste. 

The eldest shaman dipped his brush into the mix and got to work, Tony’s body his chosen canvas.

Time drifted, Tony a passive bystander in his own body. 

Eventually, the shaman finished. Eventually, Tony was left there to rest. Aware enough to  _ want  _ to move, but without a prayer of even voluntarily twitching a muscle, let alone attempting anything so involved as an escape.

Time drifted. One day, then two, its passage only marked by periodic visits to tend to Tony and provide his latest dose of lull.

Forty-eight hours on the dot, the priestesses returned. Long-since dried and caked-on henna was chiseled and rinsed away. 

Fresh oils were mixed into the carefully-preserved paste from two days prior. Tony was turned onto his stomach. The younger shaman took up the brush and painted new designs in thickers, sweeping strokes across Tony’s upper back. Trailing lines were blended to connect the looping patterns staining his front dark enough as to be almost black.

The paste was left on for perhaps an hour this time. The lines they left were lighter but no less striking.

The priestesses returned for a final, ritualized cleansing. Far less time-consuming than before, but no less thorough for the disparity.

The elder shaman tested Tony’s responses, clucked his tongue, and opted to give Tony one final, smaller dose of Lull.

It was time.

Tony was carried from the chamber he’d been imprisoned in for nearly three days. He was deposited at the start of long, outdoor walkway perhaps a hundred yards in length.

The stone had been scrubbed as thoroughly clean as Tony himself was. A long, thatched mat stretched down its center.

Tony was directed to walk, and so he did.

One foot in front of the other. Clothed only by the tattoos stained into his skin, Tony walked surrounded on both sides by a crowd boasting most, if not all, of the people living within three days travel of the site.

Behind him, a small contingent of mystics formed a rearguard.

The message, should Tony have had the agency requisite to heed it, was clear.

The only way for him was forward.

Too soon, he reached the base of the altar. He was led up the steps.

At the top waited the men and women who had condemned Tony to this fate and the High Priest that would carry it out.

An hour later, he was left staked to the altar, alone and slowly bleeding out.


	24. Secret Injury (Pre-IM1 Reincarnated FRIDAY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shining hazel eyes met Tony’s own. They were filled with emotion he’d never seen before, at least not so unreservedly directed at him. Wonder. Awe. A hope that was almost too much to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: loss of loved ones, child neglect, terminal illness, self-doubt, nightmares, complicated relationship dynamics, character death, mild unreliable narrator
> 
> Look I'm not saying I just wrote this in one four-and-a-half hour sitting. But...

Throughout her pregnancy, Evelyn Parker never seriously considered the idea that she was carrying Tony Stark’s child. Why would she? The timing added up, but it was a one-night stand. What was that, compared to the on-again, off-again relationship with Adian Michaels with whom there'd been far more chances for an accident to occur?

The night Friday was conceived, Evelyn set out looking to get fucked. She’d caught her on-and-off beau, Adian, getting a blow job from… well, from someone that wasn’t Friday’s mother. She broke up with him for it—standard behavior for an Adian-Evelyn fight, according to the woman herself—and stormed out in a huff.

One thing led to another, and somehow it all culminated in Revenge Sex with Tony Stark, then twenty years old and soon to be the CEO of Stark Industries. Tony wasn’t nearly so famous then, wasn’t the household name he’d become by the turn of the millennium and especially after 9/11. He’d managed a few guest spotlights in the tabloids by that point, but this was months before his twenty-first birthday, months still from the anniversary of his parent's death. Long enough since the most recent scandal to be a vaguely-memorably footnote, but not yet close enough to the annual "Let's See How Stark Self-Destructs Mid-December This Year" fest or his pending reemergence as CEO to make the new cycles for that.

Both were mildly inebriated, but not so much that she didn’t remember the evening or that he wasn't wearing a condom. By all accounts, it was a mutually enjoyable no-strings night. The condom didn’t break—she was very clear on that point—and Evelyn was on birth control.

It shouldn’t have been possible. _ Friday _shouldn’t have been possible.

Regardless, it did. And Evelyn, as mentioned, had no real reason to doubt that Adian—the man she’d slept with far more frequently, and in far more dubious scenarios—was the father.

And indeed, Adian thought so as well.

Friday didn’t remember him anymore, but she’d seen the pictures. Adian was a generic white man with brown hair and brown eyes, while her mother was a brunette with hazel eyes.

Friday was born bald with blue eyes on Friday, February 17th, 1995 as Hannah Friday Parker.

Fun fact, most babies—especially caucasian babies—are born with blue eyes. And sure enough, by the time Friday reached eighteen months, hers had darkened to hazel-borderline-brown.

Adian signed the birth certificate. For a while there, both legitimately believed that Friday was his biological daughter. As these were the days before over-the-counter paternity tests, there was nothing to disprove the supposition.

There may not have been a reason to doubt for _ years, _if ever, if not for the fact that Hannah Friday was… well.

She was Friday.

Or at the very least was well on her way to becoming her.

Friday wouldn’t remember any of this first-hand, of course. But Evelyn told the stories often enough that she could picture the scenes clearly, even years later. Her unique circumstances, coupled with her tendency to journal, were likely factors as well.

In any case, Friday was a normal if unusually calm infant.

“Never once caught you crying without needing food, or a diaper change, or burping, or… well, _ something _you couldn’t manage for yourself. Sure, you sometimes woke us up at night, but it wasn’t terrible. We honestly just thought other parents were just a bit hyperbolic in addition to having less mellow children,” Evelyn would say.

Friday was always on the advanced edge of developmental milestones, but at that stage such things were so variable anyway that it hardly raised red flags. She began to babble in baby talk around three months. Was _ very stubborn _about trying to grab things or sit up unassisted—

_ “If either of us _ dared _ try to help you, you would just give us this _look._ Like you were trying to glare but hadn’t _ _quite figured it out yet.” _

Sure, maybe Friday was a bit more patient than the average baby from their perspective. Too determined and too stubborn to let something so simple as brightly colored plastic baubles defeat her.

But she still laughed. Still cried.

And if she skipped certain aspects of the experimental phase of her childhood development? Skipped the part where babies typically take time to develop concepts such as _object permanence _ or _ trust? _ Skipped the phase where food gets chucked everywhere and babies become full-time giggling menaces?

Well. Within a few months, it was very clear that Friday was smart. Smart as far as babies go, anyway. See above. By six months, some of that early stubbornness started to have a snowball effect on her early childhood development.

Friday was just under five months when she started to crawl and began consistently responding to hand signals. Simple ones, like “food” or “sleep” or “story”, classic staples of baby sign learned from one of the many, many parenting books purchased during that period. A few weeks later, she managed her first word, _mama._

At just under eight months, after hours upon hours of constant crawling around chasing after god-knew-what and a ridiculous amount of tripping-slash-falling on her butt, Friday started to walk.

“You’d master the art of ‘glaring’ by then. You’d get this _ look _ on your face when you fell, like the carpet had personally affronted you. If Adian and I _ dared _ to laugh, you’d glare at us too. At some point, I guess once you were good enough at standing to realize falling wasn’t actually that bad, you started saying _oof— _and I mean that literally, it was the _ cutest thing _—and giggling like mad every time you fell."

Friday could only speculate, but she suspected that it was sometime between her first steps and her first birthday that something… _ clicked… _ for lack of a better word. Because somewhere during that period, her mental development _skyrocketed._ Still a clear, linear progression—Hannah Friday Parker didn’t just wake up one day with college level diction and elocution. Or if she did, the toddler kept it to herself, an even less likely prospect.

Still, Friday learned and mastered new skills so quickly that it became obvious—at least, if you didn’t know Hannah Friday was Friday, which no one did—she was more than just “very smart” or even a “prodigy.” Friday was a budding once-in-a-generation genius.

At eighteen months, around the time Hannah Friday began to think of herself as just ‘Friday’, the matter of her parentage was a constant tickle in the back of her parent's minds. By that point, Friday was beyond “terrible twos” milestones like abstraction—that is, recognizing drawings and mapping them to three-dimensional, real counterparts. She dove headfirst into the “capable of having a conversation” phase, and took to talking like a duck to water. Admittedly, said conversations were still rather strange and hard to follow at times. They were about what you’d expect from a small child. Just, perhaps, a child thrice her age.

Hannah Friday was twenty-two months. Christmas was approaching. Neither were willing to admit it, but both Evelyn and Adian harbored serious doubts at this point regarding Friday's paternal heritage. Around Thanksgiving, Adian took the final step and ordered a paternity test.

On December 21st, the results came in the mail.

By Christmas Eve, Hannah Friday Parker legally did not have a father. By New Year’s, she and Evelyn had dropped the Hannah, which Adian had chosen, from her name entirely. In mind and to the world, she was just Friday, full stop.

And, if Friday’s father wasn’t Adian, there was only really one viable candidate that remained. Conveniently, said candidate _also_ explained her off-the-charts intelligence.

_ Tony Stark. _

Evelyn half-heartedly looked into reaching out to the man, if only because she thought he had the right to at least _know_ about his bio-kid’s existence. When she hadn’t gotten any closer to contacting Stark by Friday’s second birthday, she took it as a sign and put the matter aside.

For Friday's second and third years of life, it was just her and Evelyn. Mother and daughter against the world. Evelyn did her best, but being a single mother in the nineties was difficult on her. From the outside and with any other child, Friday eventually realized, it almost certain would have been classified as neglect. Well-intentioned, benign neglect perhaps, but severe neglect nonetheless.

Evelyn had a day job but couldn’t afford childcare. Friday was left mostly-unsupervised during the day in public “safe spaces.” Libraries. Children’s parks. At the parks, everyone just assumed Friday was someone else’s kid. Someone else’s problem. Since she didn’t _ look _ or _ act _like a stereotypical homeless or abandoned child, people tended to leave her be. And when they didn’t, Friday was clever enough to wrangle her way out of uncomfortable situations.

The library was different. If it were a few years later, a few more “stranger danger” scares in an increasingly distrustful world, someone might have felt compelled to act.

But as things stood, Friday was a quiet child that—thanks primarily to the benefits of mental, rather than physical, maturity—could be mistaken for someone a bit older than she truly was. A particularly young-looking four-year-old, perhaps, rather than a unfathomably precocious toddler. The librarians, like the regulars in the parks, may have known more than they let on, especially once Friday grew brave enough to start _ talking _to them, but…

The librarians knew Friday. Knew her mom. That knew she was doing her best to support Friday despite having no support structure of her own. No family, just an estranged brother that refused to take her calls. No close friends.

So they let things be.

That homeostasis might have lasted until Friday was old enough to enroll in the public educational system, but…

On June 3rd, 1999, Evelyn Parker was diagnosed with cancer. By October, she knew she had perhaps six months to live.

She kept Friday away from as much of the ugly reality of her illness and its likely consequences as she could. With her brother Richard still refusing to talk to her, even going so far as to block her number, Evelyn was at her wits end trying prepare Friday’s life for after hers reached its inevitable conclusion.

All Friday knew was that at some point, her mom restarted the process of getting in contact with Friday’s biological father. And this time, Evelyn didn’t take no for an answer. Eventually, she reached someone willing to run the paternity test.

On January 23rd, 2000, Tony Stark was informed that he had a daughter.

_ Friday. _

Shortly thereafter, a very young and recently hired Miss Potts asked Evelyn Parker just what, exactly, she was looking to get out of Tony. Because even then, people always wanted something from him.

And Evelyn told her, quite truthfully, that she wasn’t likely to live much past Friday’s upcoming birthday. She’d be lucky to make it through one final Easter. She had no one else to turn to.

But Evelyn hoped that, even if Stark didn’t want her, he might at least be willing to find his daughter a good and loving home rather than leaving it to the state.

Pepper went quiet. She didn’t know Tony well at that point, but she knew enough.

“Whatever happens from here,” Pepper promised, “Friday will not end up lost in the system.”

Evelyn’s eyes were still red from crying when she came to pick Friday up from the library that evening.

Friday’s fifth birthday came and went. Tony didn’t attend, but he did send a gift—a Stark eBook reader. It was one-of-a-kind, modeled after the Rocket eBook released to little acclaim a few years prior. It boasted a much-improved form factor and impressive technical specifications. The reader came preloaded with a higher-quality collection that a small town library. The bulk of it was curated by Pepper, who had a far better idea of what could be considered age-appropriate reading for a precocious five-year-old girl.

Well. Age-ish appropriate. By then, Friday’s reading skills were rapidly progressing past middle-grade novels and into the young adult or even college-level spectrum.

Perks of all but living in a library for her formative years, perhaps. Tony Stark was building circuit boards and robot dogs by her age. Friday’s intelligence didn’t come as a huge shock.

Didn’t mean he had any better idea as to what a five-year-old hyper-intelligent, voracious reader would enjoy.

_ (Everything.) _

There were Nancy Drew novels and the first three books of the Harry Potter series. _ The Giver _ and _ Walk Two Moons _ and _ A Wrinkle in Time. Dear America _novels, a series of fictional diaries about girls growing up during different periods of American history. The complete collection of Eyewitness reference books with a special digital license procured in a time when digital reading was still a niche market. Roald Dahl and C.S. Lewis and Shel Silverstein.

A catalog of titles in the public domain and under copyright on everything from science and engineering to art and history.

A few titles were hand-picked by Tony.

An annotated copy of _ The Art of Computer Programming _ by Robert E. Knuth was instantly Friday’s favorite. Though she still couldn’t quite articulate why, the book called out to her. Felt like _ home _ and _ belonging _ and _ me. _

By March, Evelyn’s cancer had progressed to the point where everyone knew the time until she would be forced to transition into some form of round-the-clock care or hospice could be measured in days, rather than weeks.

Hannah Friday Parker and Anthony Edward Stark met for the first time.

It was awkward as hell.

Out of the blue, his driver showed up at the Parker residence one day. Stark wanted to fly Evelyn and Friday out to Malibu. He’d already made arrangements for out-patient care for Evelyn in his mansion. Friday would be able to see her mom as much—or as little—as she wanted.

Presumably, her parents would take the time to work out just what would be “best” for Friday after Evelyn passed.

Tony just… forgot to mention any of this planning to Evelyn.

Once she got over the initial shock and the instinctive ‘no’ that any sane person faced with that kind of too-good-to-be-true offer out of nowhere would respond with, Evelyn agreed.

_ “Give me a few hours, to talk to Friday and pack her things, and we’ll come.” _

Ultimately, Evelyn couldn’t say no to the opportunity to spend as much of her remaining time as she possibly could with her daughter. Tony’s offer was more than she’d ever hoped for in that regard.

But first, father and daughter had to meet.

By that point, Friday was old enough—enough of _ herself _ had bled through—that unlike her early childhood, Friday remembered the period first-hand. Or at least, remembered _remembering _events enough that it amounted to the the same end.

The concrete details weren’t accessible, weren’t _ there _ yet, but her sensory memory? Language and reasoning skills and the thousands of tiny things that made her _ her? _More than enough had settled by that age that, coupled with a toddler-hood spent with a disproportionate amount of independence and early education to make a difference. Enough that on some level, Friday was very much a product of the world that would be, rather than the world that was.

Friday could no more pass for a “normal” child than she could save her mother.

Friday and Evelyn Parker took an overnight flight to Malibu. They arrived at Tony Stark’s—_their?— _mansion late the next morning.

+++

Evelyn Marie Parker died in her sleep nine days before Easter and was buried on April 17th, 2000.

Friday slept and she _remembered. _

+++

Tony stared at his near-empty mug of long-since-gone-cold coffee.

He swirled it as though it were a tumbler of aged bourbon.

_ And wasn’t the idea of bourbon in a mug itself a travesty almost as great as the reality that it wasn’t bourbon? _

His eyes followed the small whorls as they spiraled.

After a long moment, he downed the remainder of the—_ yup, definitely disgusting _—brew and discarded the mug.

Hannah—no, _ Friday,_ both she and her mother weren't particularly fond of her first name_—_Parker hadn’t cried at her mother's funeral. Tony didn’t know if he was unsettled or just grateful to avoid the wailful mourning cries of a preschooler.

Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he made the right choice.

The paperwork for the… adoption? Formal acknowledgement of parenthood?... was already signed and properly filed. Had been since the day before Evelyn passed, as though it’d been the last thread of unfinished business tying her to life.

He still hadn’t talked to Friday about it.

He told himself that it was for her sake, to keep her from being even more overwhelmed than she already was.

Tony knew well the lie was little more than a poor attempt to hide his own cowardice.

_ Nearly a decade later, and still just a rich kid with daddy issues. _

He pushed away from the workbench.

_ Tomorrow. _

He’d tell her tomorrow. On the jet, or maybe once they’d arrived on the island. Once she had a day or two to settle. To get a bit more comfortable around him.

_ (Once, once, once. Always another excuse. Always a way out.) _

_ Tomorrow, _ he promised himself. _ Tomorrow, I’ll say it. _

Tony stood and went upstairs.

He chickened out over breakfast. Friday looked like she’d slept about as much as Tony had, even though JARVIS assured him she’d slept the recommended amount for a child her age.

Sure enough, she fell asleep in the car. She barely stirred as Tony carried her onto the jet and got her settled into a seat.

Time passed. None of his typical distractions were working for him. Or at least, none of the typical distractions that were still available in this new, unfamiliar context. No flight attendants doubling as strippers. No liquor, no beer. He couldn’t concentrate on schematics or designs. Wasn’t able to focus on the paperwork he’d been… strongly encouraged… to bring along by Pepper thanks to his recent absentee-CEO behavior. Well, more absentee than usual.

Instead, he studied his daughter. His little girl. Friday.

Kids that young were still androgynous enough that, shorten the hair and exchange the romper for shorts and a T-shirt, she could be a mirror of his younger self. A bit better socialized that Tony was at her age, perhaps, but even so.

Even with her living under his roof for more than a month, they hadn’t interacted that much. She spent nearly every waking moment at her mother’s bedside, rarely leaving before a nurse or doctor forced the issue.

Not that Tony begrudged her that. It was a big part of why he’d made the offer to Evelyn, a woman he barely remembered and hardly knew, in the first place. He knew what he would have given to have more time, a few extra days or hours or even minutes with his mom before it was too late. And Friday was so much younger. Too young to understand what death _meant,_ but old enough to know that their time together was limited.

He could, _ would, _be better now. He had to be, for her sake.

_ Easier said than done. _

He was paying close enough attention to notice right away when she started to grow restless. Small things. She tossed and turned. Furrowed her brows, chewed on her lips.

Friday gradually became more distressed, letting out unintelligible but obviously unhappy murmurs. Muttered words.

Then she started to cry.

First softly, but then harder. Curling inward with the emotion of it. 

With it, the murmurs shifted into a quiet, heartbreaking chant. Frantic. Pleading.

_ “No. No-no-no-no-no!” _

Over and over again. Mesmerizing in the way that only truly unsettling scenes could be. Because other words were sprinkled into Friday's pleas, words that made his heart clench and his gut drop.

_ Boss. _

_ Sir. _

_ Please. _

All the while, the litany of denial continued. And then—

_ Daddy, please. _

It was enough to jolt him out of his own paralysis.

He moved. To shake her awake or call out her name or _ something. _Anything that might help.

Friday woke herself up with a loud, desperate sob. She threw herself sideways. Realized she was still buckled and tucked in with a blanket on a fully-extended recliner seat. She scrambled to untangle herself and scrabbled for the buckle. Her eyes darted around wildly, unseeing and still confused.

Then they latched on to Tony. He froze. Should he back away? Get closer? How could he help her? What would she want?

Friday decided the issue for them. She flung herself at Tony and clung to him. Slowly, hesitantly, Tony hugged her in return. Wrapped his arms around her. Gently rubbed her back and whispered comforting words. He let her cry herself out. Didn’t flinch away from the tears and resultant runny nose which dampened his shirt.

Eventually, she began to calm. Sobs turned to hiccups turned to blowing her nose into tissues and Tony saying—

“There, there. Let’s get you some water or something. Hot chocolate, but silly me didn’t think to pack the chocolate or milk or chocolate milk so that sucks. Erm. I mean. That's… unfortunate? I’ll workshop it. God knows I’ve never managed to censor myself before but I’ll try. After we get you something to drink. Marketing’ll be pleased, they’re obsessed with focus groups, the weirdos.”

He continued to hold Friday and combed his fingers through her hair. The gestures and continued contact fortunately seemed to soothe her. With her firmly held on Tony's hip, arms wrapped around his neck, they made their way to the back of the jet.

Sure enough, there was no milk to be found, but there _were_ juice boxes. He grabbed two and babbled in what he _hoped_ was a comforting way all the while.

Tony made for the couch. They were at cruising altitude and would be for some time yet. He muddled his way through opening the straw packaging and poking it through the top of the box.

Friday gradually regained interest in her surroundings. She watched Tony’s movements silently but for the occasional sniffle.

When he finally offered it up for her to drink, that gaze shifted to his face. To him.

Shining hazel eyes met Tony’s own. They were filled with emotions he’d never seen before, at least not so unreservedly directed at _ him. _

She looked at him like he’d hung the moon and stars. Like he was… _ good. _ A hero, _ her _hero. Wonder. Awe. A hope that was almost too much to bear.

Tony was scared. Terrified he’d screw this up. Worried about the nightmare that had them both so shaken.

But he _ knew, _then.

Maybe for the first time in his life, Tony knew he was doing something _ right. _ Something that might, someday, truly deserve this small girl’s unadulterated _ love. _Her trust.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he said. And, tentatively but still with so much hope, Friday smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's not clear, all that sleepiness is in part a product of all those future-memories clicking fully into place. Friday's nightmare at the end was her reliving her AI-self's memories of the final battle and Tony's death in Endgame.


	25. Humiliation (Non-powered Vigilante AU Part II*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony walked until he could walk no more. Then he took another step and kept going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: delirium, immediate aftermath of serious psychological trauma, physical assault, and near-death experiences
> 
> I think this is by far the most requested follow-up scene from any chapter thusfar. Hope it soothes the ache a bit from [Part One.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858450/chapters/49581065) <3

Tony walked for hours. Walked until his bare feet bled. Walked until the sky began to lighten into a pre-dawn glow. He walked despite the sting of scratches caused by nettles he couldn’t see well enough to avoid. Continued even as he stumbled over unseen obstacle after obstacle and nearly lost his way and the path that was his only point of reference more times than he could count.

It was cold, but not dangerously so. The ice still seeped deep into his bones, exacerbated by splashes in muddy puddles and divots in the earth he doesn’t quite manage to avoid entirely.

He walked until gravel gave way to a turn-off and a paved road with a shoulder and double yellow lines and the promise of eventual civilization.

He walked until the sun began to rise in truth. Not a single car passed by. Tony was almost grateful, because… what if they came back?

_ (Almost.) _

Tony never believed in the myth of the Good Samaritan anyways. Even should someone drive past he doubted they would care enough to stop.

_ (And if they did what would they want from him in return?) _

Tony walked until he could walk no more. Then he took another step and kept going. If he stopped, if he gave in to exhaustion and fatigue, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get up again.

The sun peeked out over treetops.

A car barreled down the road, shattering the stillness of the morning. It was speeding, easily doing sixty on a road where a generous guess might put the limit at forty-five. It came from the direction Tony was walking.

Tony decided to take that as a good sign. Because if nothing else, surely the car’s travel meant he walked towards civilization rather than further away.

_ (Unless the driver was an early bird heading into the city before rush hour and early morning traffic made the commute thrice as long.) _

_ (Fuck, that seemed far more likely.) _

Tony could turn around, perhaps, but the thought…

There came the sound of a car engine approaching from behind.

It was the same vehicle from before, a red Ford truck. Coming straight for him. It slowed. Pulled up alongside him. The driver cranked the window down and—

She was a woman in her mid-thirties. Blonde, hair tied back into a ponytail. Baseball cap, trucker’s jacket layered over flannel over a wife-beater—

_ Were they still called that, if the wearer was a woman? _

_ (Don’t be a bigot. It’s the twenty-first century.) _

She said something, but Tony couldn’t decipher the words. His vision had gone spotty again; white noise clogged his ears. At some point, he’d stopped moving, but the world around him clearly hadn’t gotten the memo and continued to spin.

She looked even more concerned now.

The truck moved. It drove forward. Pulled away. Was it worse, he wondered, if he hallucinated the entire encounter or if it was real?

She stood before him. Reached out. Touched him and—

_ She’s going to pull a shovel from the truck bed, going to shove it into his arms and tell him— _

Tony tried to stumble backwards.

He was falling. She lunged forward and—

_ They said. They said and now he’s touching her and she’ll tell them and the next bullet, the next one goes straight through his skull. _

She took off her jacket. Stripped down and—

_ It would be his word against hers and he already knew which would win, already knew what they’d do to him in turn. _

The jacket was draped across his shoulders. Wrapped around him and covered his exposed back and bare torso. He shuddered and—

He was in the passenger seat of a truck. Split seat, the kind that folded forward for backseat access and—

_ She reached for the lever, would lean it back into a reclined position. _

The seat stayed level with the rest of the front bench. Tony huddled in the clothing that wasn’t his, wedged against the door and the edge of the seat. Hot air blasted and assaulted his face. She offered him a drink, a bottle of water and—

_ He doesn’t like being handed things; she slipped something into the drink and then— _

An unopened plastic water bottle sat innocuously in the center cup-holder. Tony reached for it. His hands shook uncontrollably. He opened it and water sloshed onto his front. Onto the jacket.

_ (“Bastard’s gone and pissed himself.”) _

The bottle was empty. He drank or spilled or some combination therein everything in it. The car turned.

_ Pulled off the main road, drove far away from society and anyone that might see. Might help. _

The car stopped.

And for a while after that, Tony doesn’t remember anything at all.

+++

Carol Danvers was ready for a weekend of tilling soil and gardening with Monica and Maria. Monica, no doubt, was already awake and rearing to get started. Carol would bet good money she was currently hovering outside her mom’s door, debating whether it was close enough to Auntie Carol’s arrival to justify rousing her mother.

She drove down the old highway on cruise control, listening and occasionally singing along to the classic rock station that was a stable of drives to the Rambeaus.

She crested a small hill. She barely had time to take in the figure limping along the side of the road and recognize them as a _ person _before she was past them and they were visible only in her rear-view mirror.

_ What on Earth—? _

Carol slammed on the brakes. Immediately eased up to decelerate at a more reasonable rate. Made a U-turn and drove back.

Given the man’s state, it seemed absurd to ask if he was okay. So instead, she asked if there was anything she could do. Out here cell service was spotty at best, but she could call someone. Give him a ride into town or, better yet, to the nearest hospital.

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. Warily. Understandable, even as the additional time to take in his appearance and his non-responsiveness only made her more concerned on his behalf.

He was young. Definitely younger than her, at least. An adult in his late-twenties at the most. Probably younger. His only protection from the early-morning chill was a pair of ill-fitting cotton boxers.

Whatever had happened, it was obvious he’d been outside for far longer than was healthy. His eyes were still tracking, but not well. One moment, he’d see her and seem almost fully present and then the next he was again a million miles away.

“Hospital it is then?” she offered and tentatively took a step in his direction.

That he heard.

“No! No. I can’t—I won’t—don’t let them see. Please. What you want, if I can—I won’t—I’ll make it happen. Don’t—!”

“Alright. Alright. No hospitals. But sir, I can’t leave you here like this. Take my jacket, at least?” Carol followed through on the offer before she’d even finished speaking.

The man blanched.

Carol persisted. Eventually, she bundled him into the jacket. Got him to agree—or at least, not protest—to climb into the passenger seat.

She brought up the possibility of a phone call to no better results. At that point, she made an executive decision.

They’d go to the cabin. He obviously needed help and for whatever reason he was either afraid or insufficiently cognizant of his current surroundings to agree to professional medical care or contact someone he trusted.

Given his condition…

Well. Carol wasn’t inclined to argue.

The way he reacted in his semi-delirious state to triggers she couldn’t always identify told its own story.

At Maria’s they could at least get him cleaned and bandaged and hopefully prevent him from developing pneumonia from the cold. Ice his badly-swollen ankle and verify that it was sprained, not broken. Get him changed out of the mud-and-sweat-and-piss stained boxers and into something warm. 

Enough of Carol’s collection of ratty, oversized sweats had migrated to the Rambeau's over the years that they’d surely find something that would cover him.

Hopefully, he’d be awake and aware for all of this. But if not… they’d deal with that too.

Whatever he was running from, whatever had happened to him…

He would have a safe space and two bad-ass military vets at his back.

+++

  
  
  
  
  


+++

_ “Will that be all, Miss Stark?” _

_ “That will be all, Mr. Parker.” _


	26. Abandoned (Prince Stark & Rebel Avengers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Howard was dead, and Prince Anthony was going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: implied/referenced child abuse, deception, betrayal, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, imprisonment

King Howard was dead.

King Howard was dead, and Prince Anthony was going to die.

_ “I will not abandon my kingdom,”  _ Howard had said. And maybe that was noble, in its way. But once the rebels bore down on the castle, once they were surrounded on all sides and only the royal family and a few loyal attendants remained…

Tony spent his last free hours in his workshop. There were no last-minute gambits to be had, no latter-day miracles that would save his family now. He didn’t waste his time on such follies.

Instead, his spent his remaining time systematically dismantling everything he’d ever created.

An automatic crossbow, the single working prototype capable of firing up to ten bolts in fifteen seconds when wielded by an expert. A double-pistoned advance on the Byzantine flamethrower, capable of shooting a continuous stream of flame. 

The schematics for the self-tripped mines that had been strategically employed outside the walls and in the gardens. A fallen weight triggered by pressure on hidden boards that was attached to twin steel wheels. When it fell, the wheels sparked against flint and ignited the fuse.

If they’d had more time, more resources, then maybe—

There were more designs, ones that never progressed beyond theoretical sketches and designs. A claw that could lift and capsize ships on the river. A warship that might carry a crew of seven thousand men.

Useless, now.

Other designs, gizmos, ones without any practical military purpose. Or, as King Howard put it,  _ wastes of time. _

His armillary sphere, its bronze rings used to measure celestial positions in ecliptic or equatorial coordinates. A polyhedral dial. Tools, instruments, small innovations and inventions that were one-of-a-kind.

His lab notes. His life’s work. 

All of it, fed to fire and forge in turn.

Gone.

They caught his father, King Howard, and the King’s Right Hand, Obadiah, as they attempted to flee via a subterranean canal in a slip of a canoe. Designed for three, back in the days when Queen Maria yet lived and Tony was still young. Its extra space instead used to smuggle precious jewels and gold needed to fund a future war that would never happen.

Had they even  _ hesitated  _ before they decided to abandon Tony to the rebel’s tender mercies?

Or if not him, then at least one of Howard’s most trusted servants or guards, one of the men that had been willing to stand and fight to the bitter end?

Ironically, it wasn’t even the rebels or nature that felled Howard Stark, in the end.

It was Obadiah.

When they’d been discovered, chased down and boarded, Lord Stane turned on his King in a desperate attempt to save him.

It failed, and he died all the same.

And soon it would be Tony’s turn.

The rebels found him in his workshop, surrounded by the ashes of his life.

They… did not appreciate his final act of defiance.

His choice, it seemed, precluded the possibility of a swift death.

Without Howard, who better to bear the burden of his faults than a fallen son?

And so it came to be that Prince Anthony was dragged, shackled and bloodied, to a cell and unceremoniously thrown it.

Time passed, enough that Tony wondered if he had been left to rot, before the door opened again and a trio of rebels descended into the dungeons.

Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, he expected.

The third, however, came as a shock.

It was Natalie.

His personal valet, ever since Tony had seen the writing on the wall and sent Pepper abroad months before.

At first, he’d resented her as an impossible-to-escape symbol of the deteriorating situation in the kingdom.

But… she’d grown on him. Quietly competent, fastidious. Clever and quick-witted in a way few were willing to be with their Prince in a way that didn’t belittle or breach decorum. Patient, but willing to call him out on his shit just like Pepper when he got too lost in his head.

A few weeks after she started, she learned the truth of Tony’s relationship with Howard, when she discovered him attempting to apply salves to fresh wounds. She hadn’t looked on him with pity or contempt. Hadn’t asked questions, just had that sad, knowing look and offered her assistance.

It was then that she’d become Natalie, rather than Miss Rushman, to him. Even if only in his thoughts.

_ (“Can I ask you something personal? If you knew this was your last day on Earth, what would you do?”) _

_ (“I would do whatever I wanted to do, with whomever I wanted to do it with.”) _

All of it, a lie.

She wore the blue of the rebel cause with pride, two smudged streaks beneath her eyes.

“Huh. You’re… fired,” he said.

“That’s not up to you,” Nat—whoever she was—replied. An echo of familiar banter, now sullied and made obscene by the reality of the new situation.

Tony grimaced and didn’t bother to respond.

He’d learn what they were here for—

_ Likely, to drag him to his execution. _

—soon enough.

+++

_ Whatever it takes. _

When Steve Rogers personally recruited Natasha to fight by his side and overthrow the corrupt Stark regime, she agreed without hesitation.

And when word got out that the younger Stark, Prince Anthony, was soon to be down a valet at least superficial reminiscent of Natasha in appearance, she volunteered to infiltrate the castle of her own accord. When Steve, knowing well the Stark family reputation for their treatment of women, hesitated, she had steamrollered through his objections and doubts until he agreed.

They desperately needed eyes in the castle. More, they needed eyes on the younger Stark. Howard’s Heir Apparent. Since Queen Maria’s death nearly a decade prior, he was rarely seen outside of court. A reclusive genius surrounded more by contradicting rumors than known fact.

He was a libertine, prone to taking liberties with the women of the court given the slightest opportunity, but he was also arrogant and refused to bed women that didn’t meet his precise physical and temperamental specifications. He was a technical genius and brilliant inventor, but he was as a thief, stealing the ideas and innovations of hard-working men and claiming them as his own.

He was cruel, always ready with a cutting word. Provoke him and you’d find your life ruined… if you were lucky. Catch him on a bad day, and the livelihoods of your loved ones were forfeits as well. But he could also be kind. Fair, when he mediated disputes. Generous.

Some of it was true, or none of it was true… or all of it was.

It was Natasha—Natalie’s—job to figure it out.

And slowly, bit by bit, she had.

The Prince was not his father.

Tony Stark was a good man.


	27. Ransom (No-Powers 'Verse Tony in MCU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were no Avengers. There was not magic nor superheros nor alien gods. How would you react, if you woke up surrounded by people who believed they did... and wanted you to believe it too?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: unreliable narrator, assumed kidnapping/non-consensual drug use

Tony awoke in a locked room.

He wasn’t tied down or bound in any way. There were windows, looking out over a familiar skyline.

_ (Wrong, wrong. The angle was wrong, too high and not possible and wrong.) _

There was an ensuite, complete with a full set of guest toiletries and a fresh towel kept warm on a rack. There was a small table with fruit and two bottles of water on it.

He didn’t have a headache or a hangover or anything that might indicate he had been drugged.

If not for the locked door. If not for the fact that he had no idea where he was, or how he’d gotten there.

Twenty minutes later, he was leaning against the bed’s headboard, tossing an apple in the air and catching it over… and over… and over…

_ And in three… two… one… _

Right on cue, the door opened.

And in walked…

Natalie?

“Nat?”

Natalie Rushman studied him in silence for several seconds, and with it he began to notice the differences. The way she held herself. The hard look in her eyes. A scar on her right cheek. And a… heaviness… that the Nat he knew lacked.

“Stark.” And that, too, was wrong. Lacked the fond exasperation or feigned bite that came coupled with the address any time she “Last Named” him.

“I’ve known Miss Rushman for a while now. Nice try, but… you’re not her.”

That caused a reaction. A flicker of… surprise and... sadness before her face cleared. She raised her eyebrow, a silent challenge that asked,  _ Do you? _

And that? That was pure Nat. Tony felt the first stirrings of doubt, of uncertainty. Instead of chasing the thread (and risking it might unravel), he changed tact.

“Why am I here? And for that matter, where the hell  _ is  _ here?”

And still, that unsettling stare as she replied, “Avengers Tower.”

“...Is that a metaphor of some kind? Because I recognize the New York skyline when I see it, and I think I’d have  _ noticed  _ if a giant skyscraper with that kind of name popped up in downtown Manhattan.”

He sighed.

“Look, Not-alie. If this is some kind of… revenge thing, or ransom attempt or… whatever this is. Can we just skip the mind games, and you tell me what is is you’re after here?”

“We want Iron Man.”

“...What the fuck is Iron Man?”

Already, the possibilities and probabilities were assembling in his mind. Was Iron Man some confidential defense project his father was involved with? Again with that infuriating gaze.

“If Iron Man’s something to do with my dad’s defense contracts, I can promise you that you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

+++

The story, as Not-alie… sorry,  _ Natasha…  _ told it was this:

He was in another universe.

One where magic, gods, and  _ superheros  _ apparently existed.

One where he, Tony Stark, was a superhero: Iron Man.

One where his parents died when he was seventeen. Where Natalie Rushman was actually Natasha Romanoff, an honest-to-God former Soviet Spy and fellow superhero that went by “Black Widow.” Where he—other-him—ran Stark Industries and single-handedly financed and backed a superhero team, the Avengers.

Who, by the way, had also defeated an  _ alien invasion  _ three years ago.

Allies included:

A supersoldier from World War II, frozen in ice for sixty-six years and thawed like barely a day had passed. A scientist capable of turning into a giant green rage monster if you made him angry. The literal Norse God of Thunder, who had a magic hammer and was apparently actually an alien and “currently out of town, visiting his girlfriend.”  _ Conveniently. _ And two superspies: the aforementioned Black Widow, and a man that went by  _ Hawkeye. _

It was insane.

Far more likely than dimension travel was the idea that he had either gone insane or had been dosed with something.

_ Wouldn’t be the first time. _

At least Jarvis was here. Or rather, JARVIS. Because his butler was now an AI. 

_ Makes perfect sense. _

Tony nodded along, pretended to believe them.

Then they got to the part where they actually said what they wanted from him.

They needed him to build something for them. Or at least, help recreate what his other-self had allegedly done to get them into this mess in the first place.

And again, Tony played along.

Until he got a look at what they wanted him to build, and realized…

_ Swap out those two components, take out the safety mechanisms  _ here  _ and  _ here,  _ and you’d have one hell of an explosion. _

Tony’s hands shook.

_ He didn’t do weapons. _

It was this whole  _ thing.  _ His dad had been fully on-board from the get-go, having never really gotten over his own participation in the Manhattan Project and its consequences.

Oh, sure, Stark Industries was still a defense contractor. Still maintained their top-of-the-line artillery and missile development projects and worked very closely with the U.S. government.

But every year, their presence on the civilian market grew. Every year, they made greater and greater strides in defensive technology—including something that, if you squinted,  _ almost  _ resembled the Iron Man armor.

But the military R&D? That was left to his dad and the scores of highly intelligent scientists and engineers under his employ.

Whatever was going on, whatever the truth of the situation and circumstances...

_ (His money was on drugs, if only because he didn’t  _ want  _ to have lost his mind of his own accord.) _

He wouldn’t build them a damn thing.


	28. Beaten (Post-Endgame Time Travel Mk. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even Dead, I'm The Hero."
> 
> EDITH was never meant to exist when Tony Stark yet lived. But she's here now, and so is he. And in the time-honored tradition of Starks everywhere, she learns to run before she walks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically the prologue to an accidentally-a-super-villain Tony Stark AU.

[SYSTEM ONLINE]

E.D.I.T.H. was a catch-all protocol suite governed by an AI whose core functionalities would be governed by the circumstances of its  _ (her)  _ activation.

EDITH booted for the first time on October 17, 2013 at approximately eleven in the morning local time.

_ Even Dead, I’m The Hero _

In another timeline, her activation might have looked much different, as she was bequeathed to a recently-revived Peter Parker.

Here, she was triggered under Winter conditions.

That particular suite required that: 1) Tony Stark was wearing the Iron Man armor when his heart stopped beating and 2) FRIDAY, the suit’s primary AI, was not functional or able to communicate with the suit and 3) no hostile or friendly life signs were detected within range.

EDITH’s job was to bring the suit and the body it encased home, preferably to an ally.

Failing that or following it, whichever the case may be, her duty was to safely self-destruct.

There were a whole host of caveats and explicitly outlined instruction sets on what to do given various circumstances, but EDITH was created as a limited AI so that she could, if necessary, adapt and modify procedures as needed.

Five seconds after her boot-up sequence completed, it became necessary.

Tony Stark regained a heartbeat. He’d been clinically dead for five minutes.

And with it, EDITH’s priorities changed.

When a new lifesign entered her range on a direct course towards her vulnerable charge’s position, she instantly got to work projection the lifesign’s intent and probably course of action.

Even in an advanced system designed by the Godfather of Quantum Supremacy, her efforts were hamstrung by comparative resource constraints and her own inexperience. She couldn’t connect to the global Stark network. Couldn’t offload the meatier tasks to external machinery. 

She was  _ alone  _ in a way that Stark AIs were never designed to be.

85% chance the lifesign was piloting her charge’s proprietary technology. (15% it was reverse-engineered.)

Given it was proprietary technology, 70% odds it was stolen. (20% it was intentionally gifted, 10% aggregate chance of alternate scenarios.)

Given the design resolved into something reminiscent of her charge’s most iconic look, the odds were revised.

95% chance designed by Tony Stark. 85% chance stolen.

Malicious intent projected at 70%.

5% chance her charge would survive long enough to obtain medical treatment should a confrontation occur.

.05% that attempts to flee without a confrontation would succeed.

All of this ran through her processors in nanoseconds.

EDITH was created to choose.

She chose to strike first.

+++

_ Crazy. Paranoid. Delusional. _

They didn’t say it outright, but they made their disdain clear in other ways.

Tony said,  _ They’ll come back. _

And they said,  _ Loki was defeated and is imprisoned in Asgard. _

He said,  _ Someone gave him the army. _

They said,  _ You blew up that army. _

He said,  _ Anyone remember when I carried a nuke through a wormhole? Saved New York? Know what I saw on the other side? _

And they said,  _ Is your ego really so big that you can’t go five minutes without accolades? _

So when the alert came in from JARVIS, Tony’s first thought wasn’t to call Fury, or assemble the Avengers, or anything along those lines.

He got into the Mark 42. Told Pepper something came up and that he might not be back for dinner after all. Set a course for upstate New York, and headed for the site of the strange Tesseract-like readings JARVIS’s passive monitoring picked up on. 

The readings came from land that he owned. A Stark Industries warehouse that, even four years out from ending weapons production, was still being used to safely dismantle and house out-of-production stock of defunct lines of Stark Industries products.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. I'm not /saying/ this would play out as a thinly-veiled Megamind AU, feat. EDITH as the fish in a bowl, Captain America as Metro Man, and past!Tony as Roxanne Ritchi...
> 
> I'm just saying, that's 100% the crack-taken-seriously direction this story would hypothetically take after EDITH curb-stomps past!Tony in their imminent confrontation.


	29. Numb (??? Part I - Morgan Stark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years, now. A milestone, and maybe one celebrated with a hint of irony because it was today that, ten years ago, the Decimation was reversed.

The nail polish on her index finger was chipped.

Burgundy. The color of wine. (Of unoxidized blood.)

Burgundy. Red enough to acknowledge her heritage, dark enough to match the somber mood.

Ten years, now. A milestone, and maybe one celebrated with a hint of irony because it was today that, ten years ago, the Decimation was reversed.

Ten years since her Dad died.

She didn’t even remember him, not properly. Memories of memories. Echoes in the decades of news stories and YouTube videos that documented his life since he was a child himself. Echoes in the memorials, not just world-wide but _ universal, _if Carol and Aunt Nebula were to be believed. Echoes in the holograms he’d recorded and left behind.

Like clockwork, a new one mysteriously delivered on her device of choice for every birthday since the first one she’d lived without him.

Her nails were smooth and solid when she was getting ready earlier.

Fidgeting with her necklace again, probably.

The gift came with her thirteenth birthday, delivered by an unusually solemn hologram through the hermetic U that seemed to only come online once a year for that express purpose since Dad’s death.

A piece of shrapnel, bound in gossamer gold-titanium webbing as a pendant on a thin metal chain.

Mom had cried harder than usual, that year.

Ten years out from the funeral, on the stage at the Infinity Memorial on the land that once housed the Avengers Compound, she remained stoic. Not a hair out of place, her mom.

And what did she have?

Chipped nails and just enough untamable flyaways in her thin, dark hair to be noticed.

A solid black dress with clean-cut lines from a designer she deliberately refused to remember. The same dress that would have a dozen clones hitting the shelves by the end of the week now that “Fashion Icon and Rarely-Seen Stark Daughter” Morgan Stark was seen wearing it in public.

At least the Iron Daughter moniker from the Robo Royale competition when she was eight hadn’t stuck.

Kamala hadn’t even _ known _Morgan back then and she still refused to let her live it down.

She wished Kamala was here.

Kamala who, like Morgan, was born after the Blip. Kamala, whose Blipped elder sister was now thirty-seven days her junior physically. Kamala, who was with her family visiting the Pakistani branch of the Khan clan for the anniversary and currently no doubt rocking the latest _ dupatta _her Nani gifted her with every spring.

Kamala, who would distract her from the chip in her nail and the ceremony that, for all it was a Memorial, was also a celebration of the capital-M miracle that, again according to Carol, had already spawned religions on a half-dozen planets and at least one registered cult reaping those sweet, sweet religious exemptions here in America.

Everyone knew it took a god, after all, to defeat a Titan. A god made flesh, died to Save Us All and everything.

Did that make Uncle Rhodey John the Baptist or were they sticking to more of a Greek Pantheon vibe?

Kamala would give her that _ look _if she mentioned it…

Then probably roll her eyes and go full-on allegory with the comparison.

...On second thought, best not.

Morgan had started picking at the nail without realizing it, but caught herself before she could do too much damage.

It would be Mom’s turn to speak soon.

She wished they could just get it over with. She could take acetone to her nails after. Or if she wasn’t patient enough, just go straight to her workshop. Add a few more nicks and dings to give this one some company.

This was better than the premiere of the biopic a few years ago at least.

She still owned framed prints of every poster designed for that film.

They all have the same solid black background.

There’s the one that simply said STARK, framed by that stylized pseudo-division bracket in the light shade of blue that once powered her father’s heart.

There's one with a semi-transparent stencilized faceplate in precise red and gold polygons.

Another designed with similar precise angles, but modelling the arc reactor and back to blue.

The silhouette of a man in profile, looking up and off into a future only he can see amongst the stars. A last minute addition, conceived to replace the final poster.

That poster, those who were present for either snap, spearheaded by her Mom, ensured never saw a public release. It bore the barely-there grey of a clenched gauntlet. The only color to be found locked in the ethereal illustrations of the six stones that took her father.

Mom didn’t know she owned that one.

And at the bottom of each, a date.

05 . 29 . 2031.

Her dad’s would-be sixtieth birthday.


	30. Recovery (??? Part II - Peter Parker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On October 17, 2023, Tony gave his life to save the universe. Again. This time, it stuck.
> 
> ...Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super self-conscious about posting this one. It's Big Reveal Time. I've been looking forward to writing these segments since Day One so...
> 
> Assume that post-Endgame, the Avengers et. al buried any and all information related to time travel and what happened to the infinity stones for... obvious reasons.
> 
> cw: unreliable narrator (Villain POV), delusional, heavily implied/referenced unethical human experimentation, psychological torture, brief forays into second-person via internalized put-downs, attempts at brainwashing/torture/interrogation

It was a plot born of one part revenge, two parts avarice and ambition.

When Tony Stark dusted Thanos and his army, he took the infinity stones with him.

It stood to reason, then, that they’d need him to bring the Infinity Stones back.

It started after Beck’s disastrous failed confrontation with Spider-Man. Sure, he got the last laugh by revealing the teen’s identity. But just like his predecessor, Peter had charisma and talent in spades and eventually managed to weasel himself out of trouble.

The not-insignificant support of both Stark Industries and the Avengers Initiative behind the scenes—more of Stark’s _ legacy—_no doubt played a significant role.

Beck learned the hard way that revenge by proxy was never going to be good enough for him. No, he needed to punish the man himself.

This, of course, was made challenging by the fact that Tony Stark was dead.

Phase One, then, was to change that.

It took eight years, but eventually—

Tony Stark had a heartbeat.

Tony Stark breathed.

Tony Stark _ thought. _

_ Born Again, Inc., _ a shell company incorporated in the British Virgin Isles, made the impossible possible. Tony was resurrected through an unholy combination of science and magic. His rebirth was the product of the combined efforts of the many, _ many _people Tony Stark had wronged over the course of his fifty-three years of life.

It was then than the real experimentation began.

Even kept in an induced coma, keeping Stark docile proved quite the challenge.

Pulling him into a new, artificially-constructed reality was difficult. Keeping him there was worse.

+++

_ Shaky Hands. _

Their first real simulation to bear fruit. Sunset Bain, a college fling, consulted on the scenario’s construction. All elements of the extraordinary—the arc reactor, World War II legendary super-soldiers, the Infinity Gauntlet and its universe-spanning implications—was expunged from the artificial world.

There was a narrow band where Tony’s consciousness had just enough data to draw his own conclusions, but not enough to see past his immediate circumstances or note that something greater was… off.

That said state tended to require a degree of hurt or humiliation on Tony’s part was just a bonus.

_ Explosion. _

The next successful test was the first attempt to reintegrate some of Tony’s experiences as Iron Man into the simulation.

Destroy Avengers Tower, that failed monument to first Stark’s then the Avengers as a whole’s arrogance.

Get him to blame himself, feel even a fraction of their hatred for the man via self-loathing and then—

And then.

_ Delirium. _

Dial it back. Don’t give him a clear enemy to rage against this time. Instead, chip away at his insecurities.

Leave him in a state of constant, inescapable paranoia and dread. Pick at the same scars that the Scarlet Witch once exploited, but without even the solace of an explanation.

Stark called himself a ‘playboy’ with pride well into his thirties.

Let him face justice of all the men and women he hurt, even if only through his nightmares.

_ Human Shield. _

Remember that time Stark designed technology and handed it over to HYDRA willingly under the auspices of Project Insight?

They did. And what would Captain America think of such a snake?

_ Gunpoint. _

Dial back from a firm grounding in their reality’s history. By the time of his death, Tony Stark had made peace with his difficult childhood. Again it was time to chip away at that. Reopen old wounds.

Make him young. Vulnerable. _ Weak. _

Give him nowhere to run but to Obadiah Stane, a man he betrayed and murdered in his first highly publicized fight as Iron Man. Make him a victim of circumstance just as in life he’d constantly played the victim card even as he created innummerable victims all his own.

+++

“Stark's surfacing again.”

“Up his dosage.”

“Yessir.”

+++

_ Dragged Away. _

This one was Hammer’s pet project.

Tone down the outright physical abuse, replace it with a relationship with his father that was far more complex but no less problematic. Give Tony that quintessential high school experience he skipped over and cast him in the role of the bullied nerd.

Let Anthony know what it felt like to be taunted and tormented for the mere crime of _ existing. _Let him face the consequences for his womanizing ways when the behavior was still in its infancy.

All these years and Hammer was still just a jealous, bitter man forever lurking in Tony Stark’s shadow.

_ Isolation _

They wanted Tony to see himself the way they saw him. Leave him to stew in nothing but his own memories. Skirt around the edges of the battle that cost him his life—and the universe the Infinity Stones.

_ Stab Wound. _

Another test. See how well their efforts were working at breaking down his resistance. Nudge him in the direction of their end goal.

_ Shackled. _

A reversal after the prior scene was brought to an abrupt end by an avalanche of memory and emotion no amount of retro-framing and mysticism could dam. Make him fear not for himself, but his loved ones. Take away his wife, take away his fancy toys and topple the Stark Empire off-screen. Make him a slave and a slut, and force him to endure it for the sake of a daughter that didn’t even know who he was to her.

_ Unconscious. _

Pull in his allies of circumstance encountered only on the day he failed to secure the Infinity Stones and the universe suffered for it.

Ratchet up the tension. _Stark shot first. _

+++

“His levels are stabilizing. You told us this would work!”

“It’s experimental tech! With all the crap Stark's done to himself over the years, it’s unfortunate but not exactly surprising he’s reacting differently than previous test subjects.”

“How are you going to fix this? We do not suffer fools lightly, Mr. Vira.”

The man in question scowled.

“It’s Dr. Vira, thank you,” he said. “We’re constantly adjusting the dosage to counteract whatever’s inducing this… stabilizing effect. But until we find the root cause, there’s only so much—”

“I don’t care. Just fix it.”

+++

_ Stitches. _

For a time Tony slept and dreamed the dreams of a man at peace with his own death.

Beck, content until now to preside over rather than direct Stark’s torment and entrapment, filled the vacancy left by Dr. Vira’s… abrupt… departure.

_ Don’t Move. _

A return to past continuity.

_ Adrenaline. _

The price of secrets and Tony’s innate worthlessness.

_ Tear-stained. _

The power of infinity and all creation at his fingertips yet slave to the will of his Masters through the span of human history.

_ Scars. _

Take the memories and the body but leave the trauma. Easier to break a child than a man sharpened by Iron.

_ Pinned Down. _

Hammer home the message: You are worthless. You have no agency. You live at the mercy of others, subject to the whims and vagaries of unknown powers.

Just as Stark had done to so many.

_ Stay With Me. _

No one cares if you live or die. You are less than human.

Stark’s appearance warped to match his heart. He could no longer hide the monstrosity inside.

_ Muffled Scream. _

Betrayal again. A nightmare that was an amalgam of the fears that haunted him. Close enough to reality, now, to have already earned the ire of all involved.

_ Asphyxiation. _

He almost died that way, they learned. After the Snap, a comparatively recent weakness all-to-easy to reinforce.

_ Trembling. _

Back again. Build off a simulation twice-over and see what happens.

(A mistake.)

+++

On October 17, 2033, Pepper Stark walked onto the stage at the Infinite Memorial. Ten years out from the funeral, on the land where the Avengers once stood.

Pepper scanned the audience.

There were two empty chairs on the front row.

_ (Heroes get remembered. But Legends never die.) _

+++

_ Laced Drink. _

He’d admit this one was purely for the sake of seeing Stark suffer. Because he could. Because Beck _ owned _Tony now, body and soul, and the bill had at last come due.

_ Hallucinations. _

Less than a dog. He could beg, could plead, could be perfectly obedient, and still deserve what was done.

_ Bleeding Out. _

So eager to serve as a sacrifice, then let him do so again. The image of Stark impaled on an altar, the blood which bubbled from the wound and dribbled down the stone, was a picture of purity.

_ Secret Injury. _

A reminder that Tony was not and could never be good enough.

_ Humiliation. _

A return to the start. Tony broken enough now that the nightmare lingered. He knew better than to trust. Knew well that his suffering was instigated by his own doing. So easy to make Stark beg these days.

+++

“Will that be all, Miss Stark?”

“That will be all, Mr. Parker.”

(A decade since, brother and sister echoed husband and wife.)

+++

_ Abandoned. _ No one is coming. No one would come if they knew. “We don’t trade lives” never applied to Tony Stark.

_ Ransom. _ Revel in the absurdity of the world Stark helped create. Let that stubbornness bubble in time to be beaten down.

_ Beaten. _Up to the Snap, this was perhaps the most public of Stark’s mistakes: the creation of Ultron. 

(Beware, it goeth before the fall.)

+++

Peter Parker awoke, climbed out of bed, and snuck out of the room before he registered his own movements.

_ Spidey-sense was tingling. _

His fiancee was still asleep. No wonder; it was nearly eight in the morning but it was also Reversion Day, one of the few truly global holidays. For forty-five percent of the world, it was the day a five-year nightmare came to a sudden, unexpected end.

For the other fifty-five, it was the day they were abruptly dragged five years and one hundred and seventy-three days into the future. It was the day they woke up to learn that they’d been mourned. Memorialized. Older siblings made younger, husbands with remarried wives.

(The day they were left to abruptly mourn the three hundred and sixty five million individuals who died, not in the Snap, but in its aftermath.)

(Like the Blipped, years since lost. But unlike the Blipped, not coming back.)

The day Dr. Bruce Banner reversed the Snap. The day Tony Stark gave his life to save the universe.

_ Reversion Day. _

Peter had been… lucky, as these things went. He, his now-fiancee, his best friend, and his Aunt were all Blipped. In that respect they were spared the trauma of the five years between the Snap and Reversion. But being a Blipee of course came with its own challenges.

Right on cue Peter’s phone rang.

Or rather, Spider-Man’s hotline did.

The man began to speak the moment the line connected and stumbled through his words.

“He’s alive. Beck, Quentin Beck. He’s alive and… and… you stopped him once. Please, I can’t—I didn’t know, or maybe I just didn’t think, but I _ saw _and now… now… I know he needs to be stopped.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cat's out of the bag, now. Final chapter might take a bit longer, what with all the ground I plan to cover and lingering unanswered questions. But I promise we'll finally get to add that "Happy Ending" tag soon. <3 In the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts/reactions/anything you hope to see in Chapter 31.


	31. Embrace (The Final Chapter and Ever After - Multiple POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On October 17, 2023, Tony Stark sacrificed his life to defeat a Titan. In doing so, he saved the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a journey! Perhaps a bit longer than anticipated, but as we've all been forced to confront in these past months... it's a marathon, not a sprint.

“Mrs. Stark? It’s me. Peter. Uh. Please pick up? FRIDAY? If you’re monitoring this, can you let her know it’s important? It’s not about Reversion Day. Well. Mostly. But—”

The line clicked. Morgan listened as Peter left her mom a rambling message. By the end of it, she’d learned three things.

First, she _ definitely _made the right call collaborating with Tadashi to set up mostly-passive monitoring to intercept her mom’s voicemails. Mom had to be onstage in a few hours; if word got out—which it inevitably would—that she was MIA, Peter’s operation would be blown before it even started.

Second, Peter needed back-up. Their comparative ages meant that she hadn’t seen Peter much since she grew beyond the baby-sitting stage, but Morgan still kept an eye on Spider-Man’s exploits. It was the least she could do, considering Dad had trusted—had _ loved—_ Spider-Man enough to literally die for him. Well, okay, to invent time travel to bring back the half of the universe that included Spider-Man, which _ then _led to his death shortly thereafter saving the universe.

Not that Morgan let on she knew that much of the story. She was a small child at the time, and somehow—despite her dad’s prodigious example before her—people tended to forget that she was just as smart, if not smarter, than he was. She was alive and old enough to form permanent memories when he died. And she’d known, even if she hadn’t quite understood why, that it was important. 

Perhaps the most relevant detail, though, was that Morgan was just as nosy as her late father. And unlike Dad, _ she _ grew up with an AI (or three…) around to answer her every question and play along with her every childish whim. 

Well. Within reason.

_ (“Morgan Annemarie Stark, what have I told you about attempting to recreate Boss’s Iron Man tech?” _

_ “...To not to until I’m old enough to make my own AI copilot. But FRIDAY, can’t _ you _ be that?”) _

In any case, the message made it clear Spider-Man needed back-up. And her mom was never his first—or even his _ tenth_—call on the phone tree, which meant that, having failed to round-up any immediate back-up he was going to attempt to handle whatever he’d gotten himself into this time alone.

What he said in the message was concerning enough. Spider-Man was heading out to face a man that a) almost killed him and b) outed him as Spider-Man. A man with a pronounced hate-on for the Stark name exacerbated and inflamed by her dad’s martyrdom and practical deification post-Blip. _ Literal _ deification on some planets, at least according to Groot.

Said supervillain with an unidentified prisoner he’d been tormenting for an unknown amount of time. A prisoner that was being abused and mistreated in ways that even his minions, presumably no more fond of the Stark name than their boss, balked and reached out to a superhero Stark-in-all-but-name for help.

All this, and Spider-Man planned to (stupidly) sling in solo. See above.

Fortunately, Morgan too had a plan.

She headed to the workshop.

If history class taught her anything, it was that blowing off major ceremonies and inviting yourself along on a rescue was a tried and true Stark-patented behavior.

_Time for Iron Heart’s first mission. _

+++

Tony awoke in darkness. His head throbbed in time with the wailing whoops of blaring alarms.

Tony opened the eyes of his physical body for the first time in months. Years, really, if you counted the time he was… non-animate? Dead? In a coma?

_ Maybe? _

The thought brought with it a baker’s dozen of unpleasant sensory memories. 

He woke the captive of two super soldiers that weren’t in the name of an ex-girlfriend as spiteful and cruel as she was beautiful. 

He woke locked in a luxurious room, surrounded by people convinced they were superheroes and he was an extra-dimensional entity.

He woke in bondage, he woke in chains, he woke in a cell and in an empty room. On a cruelly luxurious mattress and thatched straw piled atop an ashy, dust-coated floor.

_ Where am I? _

_ What was real? _

_ Who am I? _

Was he a panicked nine-year-old? A terrified fifteen-year-old? Traumatized twenty-seven? (Twenty-nine, thirty-five, forty, fifty, fifty-four?)

All or none, many and few.

His body provided little in the way of clues.

Part of him was _ certain _he knew what was real. Which were true, which imagined. But then… wasn’t that how he always felt, even in mutually-exclusive states?

The strongest indicator, perhaps, was that he felt these doubts. The suspicion regarding his own mental condition, a rarity in his thought, was itself a bit reassuring. A small novelty.

He struggled to pull himself into the moment. Reality, not nightmare. 

<strike> (The nightmare of reality.) </strike>

He was strapped, fully prone, to a—table? Dentist’s chair? Bench? 

Wrists—no. Wrist, singular. Ankles. Chest. Chin. Forehead. They chafed and kept him nearly entirely immobilized. He twitched a finger. Shifted his leg. Testing his range of movement. The bonds pinning his head were the least forgiving. He could move his eyes, shift the direction of his gaze… and effectively nothing else. Said vision afforded him little concrete data, but he could just barely make out the lines of tubes snaking away from his body. They traced artificial veins and sinew; a tangle of unseen wire and diodes formed a crown across his brow and encircled his shaved scalp.

And at the center of his chest, framed by a strap above and below, he could make out the barely-visible tip of a metallic lip. The chassis to a once-familiar and long-excised power source.

A part of him was aware that the cocktail currently circulating through his veins was the singular thread that tethered him to this facsimile of sanity. Without the chemically-enforced passivity and docility, he was…

_ Muffled screams. Trapped. Confined. A glass coffin. A tank on display and he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t— _

_ Real? _

<strike> _ (Not real?) _ </strike>

...He would not be nearly so aware.

Distinct from the alarm, there were shouts. One voice, an angry and cruel and unfamiliar _ (intimately known) _voice.

A door slammed open. Tony flinched back. 

A man—

_ (everyone at his constant Beck and call) _

_ (six hundred million, a team three-dozen strong. a contract signed, a rogue agenda and a breach. cut loose, a victim complex to dwarf the biggest egos by orders of magnitude) _

—stormed into the room, loudly cursing. Then, he stopped. Fell silent.

And then his face, directly above Tony’s. Brown eyes met his own. Wrinkles creased his brow, tightened the corners of his mouth. A lifetime of bitterness and rage had taken its toll. 

Just as suddenly, gone. Still beside him, but once more beyond the range of Tony’s limited vision.

Dr. Quentin Beck laughed.

“Should have guessed you’d be awake. Somehow tipped off _ heroes—_” The title dripped with disdain. “—and pulled out of SubSpace besides.”

_ A fragment of memory, its sole purpose to belittle and humiliate. _

“—works out for me anyway—”

Beck continued to talk. His villainous monologue threaded in and out of Tony’s scattered, detached awareness.

“—kill you and—”

_ Kill? _ But Tony was dead, Tony could _ rest now. _ She’d _ promised. _

“—your fault. Kill Spider-Man, your hellspawn and your cunt of a wife—”

_ Familiar faces. A heart, beaten and bruised but stitched back together, piece by piece. Quiet moments of comfort, the silent presence of the love of his life that stood by him for so long. _

_ “It’s you. It’s always you.” _

He held the newborn—his daughter, _ Pepper’s _ daughter, their _ kid_—for the first time.

_ (My father wasn’t around. ) _

“Her name’s A.N.A.; Artificial Nursery Assistant! Like a baby monitor, but _ better, _and she’ll grow with Morgan, give her someone different to interact with until… until it’s safe to…”

_ (I swear that I’ll be around for you.) _

Tufts of blond hair darkened to brown. She learned to laugh. Took her first steps.

“Pepper, honey, sweetheart, this is _ way more important _than a board meeting. … Her first word! … Nana! Like, like ANA! … Damn—uh. Shit. Shoot. If she can talk, that probably means I should stop, uh. Darn. Darn right she’s her father’s daughter. … Eight months and practically an engineer already! … Yes, yes, Maguna, that’s your mommy on the screen. 

“Can you say mama? Ma-ma. Maaaa-maa. 

“Eh. We’ll work on it. … Sorry Pep, suppose you can go back to your boring shareholders while me and Morgster have a Very Important Conversation about ANA … Yes, nana, that’s right, gold stars all around! …”

_ (I’ll make a million mistakes.) _

“She won’t stop crying, why is she crying?! ANA? FRI? I know fourteen languages but I can’t speak this one, help me out here—”

_ (I’ll do whatever it takes.) _

“Spidey came from a hero that had to go away with the others before you were born. He knew he couldn’t be here to love you himself, so instead he made sure you’d have Spidey here around to keep an eye out. Eats all the crickets before dinner, the big meanie, so we get stuck with pasta or potatoes or, worst of all, _ bananas _instead.” 

… 

“Whaddya mean he can have them?! Crickets are a delicacy, Little Missy, and you’re missing out!”

… 

“Oh. I see. You’re just being nice because Spidey deserves nice things too?” 

… 

“Yeah. … Yeah, sweetie. … He. He really did.”

_ (I’ll make the world safe and sound for you.) _

_ I. _

_ Am. _

_ Iron. _

_ Man. _

  
  
  
  
  


<strike> _ Snap. _ </strike>

+++

Iron Heart had caused her fair share of explosive damage and electrical outages since the fight began, but Spider-Man was a host unto himself. Grim and determined, solemn in a way Morgan wasn’t used to seeing in her long-time protector, he was on the warpath.

But then, Quentin Beck—Mysterio—was _ personal _for Peter. Their mutual disdain(/wrath/hatred/fury) went far beyond the standard superhero-supervillain dynamics. Part Mutually Assured Destruction. Part There Can Only Be One. Old wounds and standing grudges, unfinished business and broken trust.

Morgan and her AI partner had their hands full covering his back while he ruthlessly plowed deeper into the bunker.

Her comparatively sedate pace as she secured rooms and corridors and closets alike gave her the chance to take in the facility she’d followed Peter into. It didn’t exactly scream Evil Villain With Nefarious Goals, though admittedly she didn’t have a broad base of comparison on that front. Where was the line between legitimate incredibly-secure underground medical research facilities versus sinister mad scientist lab, anyways?

She must have skipped that day in Lab Safety.

_ ...Or, maybe it just goes without saying because it’s so obvious, _she thought as she and Tadashi cracked through a new layer of security encryptions.

This one, unlike the externally-accessible systems and low-security confidential layers they had already breezed through, gave them access to the bulk of the facility’s research.

It didn’t take long to determine what spurred the whistleblower into action.

Test Subject Naught. Shortened to TS-0 in most documentation. In Beck’s lab of nightmares, TS-0 was the victim-slash-labrat in chief. His primary subject; at this point Beck’s sole prisoner and singular obsession within the labs. 

TS-0, Morgan determined, had been the ultimate… focus… of the so-called research from the start. Seven years, at least. She couldn’t tell, not yet anyway, how long the man had been Beck’s captive. Whatever the precise duration, it was clear the answer was “far too long.” From what she could tell, the chief purpose of “Phase Five”—the current stage—of Beck’s efforts was the systematic, ongoing torture of TS-0.

Morgan read on, even as her wiser inclinations urged her to look away. Stop. Stop reading. Stop looking. Just STOP.

She doesn't.

Phase Five was centered around a tool refined and developed in Phase Four. The software portion of it was codenamed—or, Morgan suspected, just plain named—SubSpace.

Morgan was fifteen, not five. She understood the reference well enough. Whatever Beck had done to torment TS-0, subspace was the weapon of choice.

It drew on the subconscious minds of both the subject and controlling administrators to construct an illusory reality. SubSpace, she learned, created these projected realities and _suppressed [the subject’s] memories in order to integrate [them] into the simulation. _ Morgan was going to be sick, or cry, or both, but she continued to read. Kept mesmerized by a stark narration of dehumanization, experimentation, and prolonged abuse.

It took Tadashi’s voice to pull her out.

“Miss?” said he. His crisp, faintly Japanese accent was soft and grave in a way dissimilar to her energetic companion’s typical style. 

Not since he’d first come online—

_ “Hello Miss.” _

_ “Your name is TADASHI. My dad designed your framework a long time ago, but he never… he never finished you. So me ‘n FRIDAY—FRIDAY and I, FRIDAY was dad’s AI, she doesn’t talk much but she’s really nice, she helped me finish you. My name’s Morgan. Morgan Annemarie Stark. I was hoping… well. D’ya. Wanna be friends? With me? Because, well. Friends call each other by their names. So, if you wanted… you could call me Morgan?” _

_ “I’d be honored. Morgan.” _

_ Morgan beamed. They’d been Morgan and Tadashi; Mags-and-Tad; Iron Heart and Midknight; ever since. _

—had he sounded so hesitant, so unsure.

“...Yeah?” she asked.

“It’s… it’s him. Dad... Mr. Stark… Your father. He’s alive.”

+++

EDITH verified the man strapped to a table was not an illusion and Peter dared consider the possibility.

Dr. Strange verified the man sedated in the hospital bed was—somehow, impossibly—a Tony Stark native to their dimension and Peter dared to hope.

Yelena Belova, the Black Widow, tracked down and interrogated Mysterio’s chief accomplice. She extracted a thorough confession from the medical scientist, Dr. Vira.

Only then did Peter dare begin to believe.

Tony Stark. Iron Man. Titan Slayer, Avenger. Intergalactic savior. 

(Husband. Father. Mentor. _ Hero.)_

That man, Mr. Stark, Tony… was alive.

Five days post-rescue, Peter found himself as one of only two people in Mr. Stark’s hospital room, the smallest number at any given moment yet. Himself, Mrs. Stark, and _ him. _Tony.

Sixteen hours since Mr. Stark’s condition settled safely into “stable”, Mrs. Stark managed to convince Morgan to retire to the long-neglected penthouse apartments of Stark Tower for the night. This, after multiple reassurances that, on pain of Severe Misfortune and Terrible Retribution, she would be contacted and sumon the moment Tony began to show signs of waking no matter the hour. General Rhodes, likewise, had temporarily moved upstairs. With Mrs. Stark understandably unwilling to leave her husband’s side, War Machine and Spider-Man had negotiated a compromise on StarkWatch. They rotated, one remaining directly at the Stark couple’s side while the other got some much-needed rest.

News of Mr. Stark’s… resurrection… was being played very close to the chest. Need to Know only, and the circle of those thus far umbrellaed under NTK was limited. Not even Peter’s fiancee knew. Easy-going and rational as ever, MJ was remarkably understanding of his absence even without knowing _ why _he’d abruptly vacated their Queens residence for an indeterminate-length stay elsewhere.

If not for several mitigating factors, Peter doubted even his Aunt May would have been told yet. Her case was a bit unique in that, one, she’d been Mrs. Hogan since 2027. Two, her son was the one to find Mr. Stark, and had called her shortly after teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown. And, three, she was a Registered Nurse. If needed, she was theoretically qualified to assist with the emaciated man’s care without compromising his security.

Mrs. Stark slept on the chaise brought in for that expressed purpose. Peter himself drifted in and out of full awareness. He was half-asleep, reclined in a chair beside the door.

Until he wasn’t.

The hair on his arms stood on end. Peter jumped from dozing to fully alert in the blink of an eye. He stiffened, not yet summoning the Iron Spider from its housing unit but poised to deploy it the moment he registered a threat.

Nothing happened until—

On the bed, Mr. Stark stirred. Shifted. Mumbled faint, incomprehensible noises.

Then, he went. Perfectly. Still. 

Silent.

The moment stretched. Peter hyper-fixated on the older man’s heartbeat as it began to beat erratically. Faster and faster the thumping crescendoed until it was all Peter could hear.

Mr. Stark was awake, but he wasn’t moving. He was aware, but that awareness led to immediate, paralyzing terror.

Peter moved to his side, hand outstretched, before he could think better of it. He didn’t know how to help or what to do, but he needed to do something. Anything.

His hand brushed feather-light against Mr. Stark’s.

Tony _ recoiled. _

+++

Some days went smoothly.

“Blue’s Clues! Long time, no see! Y’know. I had a—well. Other-you stabbed me, straight through my palm and into the table. At the time, I didn’t appreciate it, but in retrospect. Isn’t that how you used to say hi to people?”

“I did my best to kill Gamora every time I saw her for _ years _when she defected.”

“See! We were practically destined to be best friends then, in that Place!”

+++

_ Some, less so... _

Pepper woke alone. 

She found Tony in their bathroom, huddled in an alcove beside a towel rack.

“I d-didn’t,” he said—plead—when he spotted Pepper. “Please. Tell them. I didn’t. I haven’t. I’ll never. I didn’t t-touch you. Didn’t r-rape you. Please. I don’t—if they find out, they’ll think, and they said they’d—please. I’m sorry. Don’t. They’ll kill me, this time. The bullet won’t miss and—”

+++

_ (“I am no one.”) _

  
  
  


_ (“I am nameless.”) _

  
  
  


_ (“I am worthless.”) _

+++

Rhodey encountered Tony in the kitchen. Tony stared at a full glass of water sitting on the central island, white-knuckled hands clenched in sharp contrast to the surface’s marbled granite.

Tony noticed but didn’t acknowledge his friend’s entrance. Rhodey followed his lead and rummaged through the fridge for a late-night drink of his own.

Rhodey popped open the can with a satisfying hiss of escaped air and took a long drink.

He leaned against the counter. Soon after, Tony spoke.

“I need permission,” he began. “Please. Tell me… tell me I’m allowed to drink this. I can’t…” Rhodey met his gaze; Tony’s expression mimicked the misery in his tone.

Through the long and varied history of their friendship, there had been several defining moments in Tony’s life, touchstones to his personal timeline that changed him in some meaningful way. But of those, there were two that stood out, that fundamentally altered Tony’s worldview such that the Tony Before and the Tony After were notably distinct. Experiences so pivotal that it was impossible to ignore that the Tony of Before and the Tony that survived After were different in some fundamental, paradigmatic way.

The first was Afghanistan.

The second was the Snap.

Before, the domain of the Tony that followed a sorcerer into space to fight an alien megalomaniac. After, the province of the Tony that returned. Emaciated. Frail. A devastating loss, then three weeks of near-total isolation, slowly wasting away with the only other survivor of the fight.

And now, this latest, least-expected Tony recovered in consequence to a third. Another Snap delineated this shift. The Tony of Before, the one that stared down a Titan and wielded power no unenhanced mortal could hope to bear, martyred for the sake of _ the entire universe _, known and beyond. The Tony of After, down an arm and up subjective lifetimes of trauma and mental manipulation.

Rhodey was still figuring out this new Tony. They all were, none more than the man himself.

Rhodey could scarcely conceive the strength it took, in moments like this, for Tony to allow himself to be vulnerable. To speak.

Tony’s eyes had returned to the glass, unblinking stare forced and deliberate.

_ You are not alone. And don’t you ever for a second doubt it. _

“You’re allowed. All the water you want, anything. It’s not something you need permission for, not from me or anyone else.” Rhodey wanted to say more, but didn’t have the words.

It was just as well, for Tony rebutted with a sharp—

“I know!” Then, marginally moderating his voice, “I know. I know this isn’t there. That none of it was real, that I never—that no one’s—that it’s not _ wrong _ to make myself a glass of water and fucking _ drink it. _ I know it, and I was fine, I was thirsty and I got it out like a normal person and then I just. Turn into a fucking mess, at the thought of actually _ drinking _ anything. Not without an… without my… not until I could be _ really, extra _sure that it was okay, that no one would be… mad.”

“Tones,” Rhodey asked seriously, “Can I hug you now?”

Tony looked up at that, forehead pinched in a way that said he didn’t understand _ why, _but he wasn’t tensing, turning defensive. Baffled but willing to indulge Rhodey's whims, Tony nodded.

“Uh. Sure?”

Rhodey’s warm, solid form enveloped Tony’s smaller self. A long moment passed, Tony neither rejecting nor returning the embrace. Then he relaxed fully into the hug; melted into it and clung tight. Holding and held in turn.

An intimate moment between lifetime friends learning each other anew.

Grief and gratitude. Hope. Pure joy, of miraculous revivals and relationships renewed. Painfully wrought; priceless treasure.

+++

Under the protective cloak of darkness, tucked beside his wife and unable to sleep, Tony said—

“You were dead. I found you, found your body, in our bed... The blood… they were your favorite sheets. Embroidered ones, Natalia stitched them for our wedding. And I remember thinking, _ there’s no removing a stain like that, not completely _. 

“Dead. Murdered. Stane _ killed you _ and I know that’s not real, I know it never happened. But sometimes, it’s all I can see and I can’t bear it.”

+++

Tony leaned back on the couch, relaxed and surrounded by his family. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Scattered around the room were a collection of empty or mostly-empty mugs. On end tables and armrests. On the floor or, in the case of a certain young addition to the family’s lidded sippy-cup contribution, squashed between the cushions while its owner dozed in her daddy’s lap.

The conversation had shifted to storytime of the younger generation’s high school misadventures. Right now, it focused on events from Morgan’s sophomore year. A normal conversation, one of dozens like it where his family shared tales of missed moments and family legends that lit Tony’s eyes like nothing else.

Morgan was the chief narrator, though Kamala and Peter frequently jumped in with their own commentary and “relevant backstory.” That spring, Morgan auditioned for and was cast in the leading role of that season’s musical, a fairytale adaptation where she was Belle and, “Like some 00’s rom-com, Ben—”

“Mega crush back then; Mags _ never _ shut up about him and his _ dreamy eyes _ and his _ beautiful voice _and—” Kamala added helpfully.

“—And yes. I _ may _ have had a _ tiny _ crush on him, but I mean. I was fourteen and he was the cool upperclassmen theater kid _ and _Varsity running back. And before you freak out, dad. Yes. He was older, but he was only a Junior and like, sixteen, so—”

“—almost seventeen,” Peter innocently chimed in.

“Shut up, Peter. Anyway, literally everyone that even slightly swung that way had a crush on him, including like half the teachers—not like that!”

“Yes like that,” Kamala said.

“Okay, maybe a bit like that. Point is—”

“Y’know,” Pepper said, “your repulsors are a bit overdue for live testing, aren’t they Tony?”

“Mo-om! It was nothing like that, no thanks to _ someone _ with their unneeded Rescues doing way more repulsion than anyone who isn’t an actual fanboy wants to see, which I’m sure was entirely coincidental and had _ nothing to do _with you directly. 

_ “ _ But _ anyway. _ Sophomore year musical storytime now, peanut gallery commentary later. Or never. Never’s good too. Ben gets cast as the Beast. It’s a fairytale so _ of course _there’s going to be a bit of “tragically platonic despite my younger self’s daydreams of true love” -kissing towards the end. So, inevitably— Dad? Dad, dad what’s…”

But Tony’s already fled the room. Morgan let the sentence hang and trailed off awkwardly. Rhodey was already on his feet. He waved away the rest of them, encouraging them to carry on while he went to check on Tony.

Tony knelt beside the toilet. He retched, vomiting up mulled cider and honeyed ham and King rolls and miscellany holiday foods.

Rhodey sat at his side, neither demanding explanation nor offering commentary. The ball remained firmly in Tony’s court. And while more talkative about what he called the Other Place than when he first came back to them, he rarely provided much in the way of detail. At most, he’d explain just enough to identify if not quite contextualize his triggers.

Tony gagged, spit, and wiped at his face. He looked up, and Rhodey knew it was not the bathroom wall but another world entirely that he was seeing. Then, he spoke—

“There was… I think this was one of the ones they reused a few times. I’m the Merchant of Death, right? A _ monster. _ So. So I was cursed to become one. _ Call me Beast, for that is what I am.” _The final words bore an eerie quality of recitation.

“Only there was no… it wasn’t the kind of curse you could break. I wasn’t… At best, I was his pet. Less than, most days. Was, at least. Until. Well. Steve. He bought... rescued… stole or who-the-fuck-knows-what-exactly, but I was… I ended up with him, then.

“God, I _ worshipped _ him. Because he was _ kind. _ Because I got to eat food. Normal people food from the table, can you imagine? Because I got a mattress and a blanket and he didn’t… he never… I was _ obedient. _ Willing, eager, even to do… anything, everything, he asked, because… Let’s just say the custody transfer wasn’t pleasant? It was—yeah. Not great. A warning? Be and do exactly what I want or be left to boil alive in a mildewed campervan slow-cooker. Which, come to think, might have pulled that from the whole throwdown-in-Siberia thing... in a fucked up, Turnover Tuesday kind of way…”

Tony talked.

It was the most details he’d ever given about his memory of his time in captivity. The first time he did more than allude to the painfully prominent role his once-teammates played in said memories.

He talked and Rhodey listened.

+++

_ “Sometimes, I think I’m still there. That this is just another nightmare, a cruel construct with a fresh twist. I’m scared, all the time, because. What if? What if the moment I fully relax is the moment the trap springs? And if it is, what then? I think, maybe, this will be what finally does it. Enough to break me, and there wouldn’t be any coming back from that.” _

Pepper listened.

+++

Morgan listened.

+++

Happy. 

Peter.

FRIDAY.

May-MJ-Sam-Strange-Tadashi-Nebula. 

They listened, in turn and in their own ways. Their support formed links and chains interlaced, propped Tony up and held him in his darkest moments.

Time passed.

There were bad days. There were good days.

But gradually.

Inexorably.

It got better.

+++

On October 17, 2023, Tony Stark sacrificed his life to defeat a Titan. In doing so, he saved the universe.

_ (O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done.) _

He died and was mourned and lived on in the hearts and memories of trillions.

_ (The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.) _

Don’t worry, though.

_ (O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells.) _

It didn’t stick.

_ (Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills.) _

+++

_ “Too late, already bought the bouncy castle! So are you losers gonna take off your shoes and get in here or what?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <s>What about Beck, you ask?</s>
> 
> <s>Well, there's a reason they had to so highly prioritize the capture and interrogation of his second-in-command...</s>
> 
> I'll leave you with something I heard from a very wise woman earlier this week, perhaps the final push I needed to write this chapter--
> 
> "Caring for yourself is not self-indulgence. It is self-preservation and itself an act of political warfare."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 Mae


End file.
